


Peace Between the Wars

by vivilove



Series: Captain Snow and His Lady [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Age of Sail, Alternate Universe - Napoleonic Wars, Alternate Universe- Royal Navy, Angst, Benjen & Brandon are Snows, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Humor, Jealousy, Jon and the Starks Are Not Related, Minor/Mentioned Violence, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-12
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2018-10-18 01:30:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 68,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10606500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vivilove/pseuds/vivilove
Summary: With the declaration of the Peace of Amiens in 1802, Captain Jon Snow of His Majesty's Navy finds himself ashore with his wife, Sansa, and family for a time.  Though a happy homecoming, Jon and Sansa will soon face revelations regarding his father's family and difficulties at home as well.  While traveling in France during the tenuous Peace, they will come face to face with an old enemy.Once more, this series is my self-indulgent delight to write and share born of my love of Patrick O'Brian's Aubrey-Maturin series and C.S. Forester's Hornblower books combined with my adoration of Jonsa.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mynameisnoneya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mynameisnoneya/gifts), [Tubbylita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tubbylita/gifts).



> For mynameisnoneya for introducing me to Hornblower in the first place which brought me to seek out the wonderful world of nautical fiction! Thanks for being my beta!
> 
> And for Tubbylita because your enthusiasm for this series makes posting it worthwhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gorgeous photo collage by mynameisnoneya!

 

 

 

_The English Channel_

_March 1802_

 

Captain Jon Snow paced the small quarterdeck of his command, His Majesty’s Sloop _Alayne_ , in the dark of night longing for the comfort of his cot. The mistral had been blowing for nearly three days and the weather showed no signs of turning fair until the morrow at the soonest. Technically speaking, the watch belonged to Mr. Waters tonight. Gendry was a master’s mate and perfectly competent, but with the weather so foul, they’d not been able to take a proper noon observation in days and, while dead reckoning was all well and good for blue water sailing, the Lizard was not so very far away and Jon felt better keeping an eye on things at present.

They were sailing home after escorting some merchantmen to Jamaica. The weather had been foul for much of the return voyage and Jon’s beloved sloop had been terribly knocked about in it. She was already in need of some serious repairs. Jon hoped that once they returned home he might be granted some leave while the dockyard repairs were underway. He hoped that he might catch the mail coach to Black Castle, the older though serviceable estate his wife had bought a couple of years earlier when she had established her school. He would enjoy the chance to surprise his family.

It had been over ten months since he’d seen his wife, Sansa, a fiery-haired beauty with crystal blue eyes, or his daughter, Sophia. She had turned four nearly six months earlier and he wondered how much she’d grown. She’d been extremely agile and active when he’d sailed, with curly, black hair like her Papa but her mother’s blue eyes. She was talking well for a child of three but she had still possessed some of the plumpness of her babyhood and a tendency to suck her thumb at times.

Jon was startled from his pacing and his musings when he heard the mainmast give an ominous groan.

He called over to the man at the wheel, “How does she steer, White?”

“She’s griping something fierce, sir.”

“We’ll need to take another reef. Mr. Waters!”

“Sir?”

“Call all hands to take another reef.”

“Aye-aye, sir!”

Gendry repeated the order and Jon returned to his pacing so the men could go about their business. They were a thoroughly efficient crew by now, having been together under him for nearly five years now. They needed no instruction in this matter and, despite the fact that no man aboard had had more than three hours of sleep at one time in the past three days, they jumped to the task readily enough.

When the squall had blown itself out and the ship was sailing along easily again, Jon went below to his cabin near dawn to sleep an hour or so, leaving orders that he was to be called if land or sail were sighted or in the event of a change in the wind or the weather took a turn for the worse. He pulled off his soaking wet tarpaulin and uniform coat and was about to lay down in his equally soaked breeches when his coxswain and steward, Edd Tollett, burst through the door with a thunderous expression like it was the Day of Judgment.

“You thinking on laying down, sir?” he asked in that particular whine common to fishwives, overworked stewards and nags in general.

“I was thinking on it, Edd,” he replied irritably.

“Not in them wet breeches, you ain’t. Where’s your coat, sir?”

“Uh…”

Jon sheepishly glanced over to where he’d carelessly hung it on the peg by the door. It had already fallen to the floor. Jon bowed his head in momentary shame as Edd tsked at him and snatched it up, muttering to himself about the cost of good bullion and casting disappointed looks Jon’s way all the while. In the face of Edd’s moral superiority in this matter, Jon had no choice but to strip out of his wet breeches and hand them over mutely like a boy caught misbehaving.

“Now, here’s a dry nightshirt and a towel for your mop, sir,” Edd said in a kinder tone now that he’d gotten his way while pointing to Jon’s hair that was a mass of dripping wet curls at present plastered to his neck and the side of his face.

“Thank you, Edd,” Jon said as he dried his hair and face.

Edd clucked his tongue as he went about the cabin another minute or so tidying up. “What would missus say if she saw the state you keep things? I do wonder,” he groused under his breath.

_What would she think of the way you talk to me? She’d be quite amused, I’m certain_.

Jon smiled privately to himself and, once Edd had left, climbed into his wonderfully dry cot ready for sleep to take him at once.

He was deep, deep down when he felt someone tugging at his sleeve and whispering in his ear.

“Shush, sweetheart. Just a bit longer,” he mumbled as he grasped his pillow tighter.

“Sir…” Mr. Flowers said again.

Jon opened his eyes to find one of the sloop’s two midshipmen standing next to his cot and smirking at him. _Oh, I can’t have you thinking you can smirk at me like that, boy_.

“Yes, Mr. Flowers?” he said with a quite taciturn expression that caused the boy’s smirk to flee at once.

“Mr. Clegane’s respects and there’s a cutter off the larboard bow,” the boy squeaked.

“A king’s ship?” Jon asked sitting up at once.

“No, sir. Mr. Clegane thinks it’s a smuggler’s craft.”

“Very well, Mr. Flowers. I’ll be up at once.”

Jon came up on deck as the cutter was closing them, obviously wishing to speak them. An unusual decision on the cutter’s part. _I’d happily press half a dozen men out of her. And I’d be well within my rights to do so if she is what she appears to be. Whatever can her captain be thinking?_

She was fast and beautifully handled and most certainly a smuggling craft. She came to under the sloop’s lee, lost her way, and lay there as trim as a gull, rising and falling on the swell.

“Good morning, Captain,” the cutter’s captain called. “Wish you joy of the peace, sir.”

“Peace?!” cried Jon as a muted babble broke out along deck.

“Silence fore and aft!” Clegane shouted.

“Aye, sir. I thought I should surprise you. They signed not three days since. There’s not a foreign-going ship has heard yet. I’ve got the cutter filled with newspapers from London and Paris with all the latest details. Half a crown a go.”

He came across with an armload of papers and there was no disbelieving him. The quarterdeck looked utterly blank but the joyous word had spread across the deck like wildfire and now cheering broke out on the forecastle, a full-throated howl of happiness. Peace…liberty…wives and sweethearts! Safety and the delights of land!

Clegane looked at Jon angrily, waiting for him to give the word to silence the men once more but Jon let them continue. He could not blame them for expressing their joy. He knew he would have to check them before long. They still needed to keep their heads long enough to make it back home after all. But, he couldn’t find it in himself to issue a rebuke at the moment. He was too stunned at present.

All the talk of the possible peace had seemed like no more than talk. Yet, here it was. Jon was twenty-four years old with a wife and daughter. His occupation might be gone, vanished in a puff of smoke. It was likely _Alayne_ would be laid up in ordinary and he would be cast upon the beach with no place to sail to in the interests of his country and no ship to sail there regardless. But, when he thought of returning home to Sansa and Sophia, he couldn’t say he felt all that much remorse. It was not as though they would go hungry after all. He had his half-pay and had earned a good deal of prize money since he’d become a commander. And his wife’s father had given them a handsome dowry after they had wed though Jon did not like to live on it and would rather keep what was left after the purchase of the estate to pass on to Sophia someday and any other children they might have. The notion of children, of having more children with Sansa, set his churning mind at ease. And the more libidinous thought crept into his mind then of making more children with Sansa and he found himself smiling widely. _Well, we must get home in one piece first_. He gave Mr. Clegane the signal at last to raise he voice and recall the men to their duty once more.

 

At supper that evening, Jon was entertaining Mr. Willas Tyrell, a parson with naval connections who the port admiral in Jamaica had ordered Jon to give a lift back home. The parson was bachelor and heading to England after spending some time doing missionary work in the islands. He was a serious man though friendly enough and perhaps he could possibly be regarded by some young ladies as handsome in a way with his wavy brown hair and golden eyes…though his thousand a year from his family along with tithes and income from the parish he was soon to take over might hold more sway with their mothers.

Along with Mr. Tyrell, Jon’s lieutenant, Mr. Smallwood, and Mr. Flowers were in attendance at the spartan meal. As the wine was passed ‘round, Mr. Tyrell’s solemn face took on a reddish glow. He was normally a rather abstemious man but the talk of peace encouraged him to imbibe more than usual for him. At present, he was sitting there smiling to himself and seemed inclined to hum occasionally under his breath. He’d been more talkative than normal and very pleased at the living his family connections had brought about for him at a parish that he had said was not so very far from Portsmouth.

“Where will your parish be, Mr. Tyrell?” Mr. Smallwood asked, no doubt hoping to prevent the man from actually singing.

It was one thing for sailors to start singing as the wine went ‘round but it would be quite shocking for a civilian, a mere passenger at that, to start singing when the captain had not communicated a desire for any such entertainment. And Captain Snow was not exactly known to call for a tune that often. Mr. Smallwood looked over at his captain with concern at the notion but Jon appeared to be rather absorbed in staring at his wineglass at present.

“Petersfield, sir,” Mr. Tyrell answered with a smile.

“Petersfield?” Jon said returning his attention to his guests. He had been wool-gathering once more thinking on seeing his wife and daughter soon. “That is where my wife…our estate is,” Jon corrected. It was hard to think of it as his. He had spent no more than a month there altogether in the two years since Sansa had purchased it and her father’s money had paid for it after all. But it would never do to say so in front of these men.

“Oh, that is very good, Captain Snow. I shall be delighted to know one of my parishioners already and, if I may be so bold, I will be even more delighted to make the acquaintance of Mrs. Snow. I’ve heard that she is quite a ravishing beauty…a snapping, red-haired girl with lovely blue eyes. Quite a handsome dowry I heard as well. You are certainly a lucky bas…man,” he finished with a bit of leer.

Jon looked at the parson sharply while noting the way Smallwood and Flowers stiffened. _You are certainly in your cups and a guest as well as a parson. I will let that pass_.

It was not any great secret that Jon was the bastard son of Lyanna Snow, the sister of his uncle, Lord Brandon Snow. It was also a well-known rumor which in this case happened to be a fact that his father had been the deceased French Marquis, Rhaegar Targaryen. However, the Marquis had not acknowledged fathering the child on the sixteen-year-old Lyanna before she died in childbirth. He had died in a duel before Jon’s first birthday and Jon had been raised at his Uncle Brandon’s estate before joining the navy with the assistance of his other uncle, Captain Benjen Snow.

“Yes, I am. Are you acquainted with my wife’s family, sir?” he asked his guest that he prayed made no further indelicate references to his wife. _For if you do, I cannot promise I_ _will hold my temper_.

“Oh no, sir. Not directly but my sister writes to me from London and keeps me up to date on all the latest gossip,” he snickered before knocking over his wine and leering once more.

Jon stared at the man with his jaw clenched and was pleased at how the knowing leer changed to a look of uncertainty and then contrition before Mr. Tyrell dropped his eyes and muttered an apology. And, Smallwood came to his aid before Jon could do something as gross as checking a guest of his at table…or challenging a well-connected parson to a duel.

“Should be nice, settling in at a new place, Mr. Tyrell. Perhaps you’ll be looking to settle down, too, eh?” his lieutenant asked.

“Oh, not _too_ soon I should think,” Mr. Tyrell laughed. “I suppose some young ladies may set their cap at me though I’m certainly no great catch beyond my income,” he said with a self-satisfied little chuckle. “No, in all seriousness, I should like time to get to know my new home before making any decisions regarding matrimony. And I long to meet _all_ my lovely parishioners as well,” he finished with a smile at Jon.

“Well, I’m sure there’s plenty of unattached young ladies around Petersfield to meet, sir.” _Just stay away from my wife…and my sister for that matter_.

Sansa’s sister, Arya, was a lovely young woman and at twenty was quite eligible for courting. Thus far, she had rejected every suitor that came calling though and Jon wondered at it. Not that Arya was in want of a husband so much. She was an independent, spirited girl and it would take an uncommon man to win her affections. But, she did possess a loving heart and it pained Jon to think of her wiling away her youth without giving romance a chance to blossom at all.

Jon heard the fiddle and drum strike up forward and he smiled again. For all his grousing today, Clegane had turned the watch below up to dance and sing tonight now that the _Alayne_ was sailing through calmer seas at last and nearly home. A lusty chorus of voices soon joined the fiddle and the drum.

_‘Come all you brave, young thoughtless men,_

_A warning take by me,_

_And never leave your happy homes,_

_To sail the raging seas’_

They were soon creating quite a din, not that Jon minded in the least. _We’ll all be parted soon enough. Let them enjoy this time with their fellows_.

The men were happy but the officers were not quite so pleased. Lieutenant Thoren Smallwood would have nothing but his half-pay to live on with very little chance of a ship and none whatsoever of promotion. And the poor, wretched midshipman, Satin Flowers, would have no hope for a commission and no half-pay at all. Gendry Waters was not much better off. He’d become a master’s mate after becoming a passed midshipman, meaning he had passed the examination for lieutenant but been unable to ‘pass for a gentleman.’ No commission had ever followed the success of his examination and he would likely have remained a perpetual mid simply for coming up through the hawse hole, or being promoted to midshipman from the lower deck by his former captain, and being born the son of a farmer instead of a gentleman if he had not decided to change to a master’s mate. At least there was hope of becoming a warrant office that way.

Clegane and the sloop’s other standing warrant officers would likely remain with her for a time unless she were broken up or sold out of the service. Clegane was not pleased though. The navy was his life.

Earlier in the afternoon, Mr. Tyrell had said, “It is charming to see how sensible the men are of the blessings of peace,” to the bosun.

“Aye. The blessings of peace,” Clegane had spat before stumping off forward.

 

As dinner broke up and the captain and his guests moved out onto the small quarterdeck, Clegane came aft to report three men drunk on duty. It was not surprising given the current of high spirits aboard but Jon loathed it all the same. It would mean dragging out the cat on the morrow and bloody backs. _I suppose I should be grateful the news_ _reached us so close to home. Else we might never have reached home without a mutiny_. Then, realizing how utterly foolish his thoughts were, given that they were not home yet and he had very nearly taken such a monumental thing for granted, Jon touched wood as a sop to fate and fortune and amended his rash thought at once. _I mean, it is good the_ _news reached us so close to home. Perhaps, if we are very blessed, we will be fortunate enough to reach home safely and without a mutiny_.

“Who were the men, Mr. Clegane?”

“Todder, Albett and Jeren, sir.”

“Very well. We’ll deal with them in the morning.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

“What’s the trouble, Mr. Waters?” Jon asked as he heard a commotion near the rail.

Gendry came over and said in a low voice, “Just the parson catting over the side, sir. The windward side,” he chuckled.

“Oh, dear…poor man,” Jon said with a smile he couldn’t quite contain. “May I suggest you move to the leeward side, Mr. Tyrell,” Jon called out only to be answered with more hideous retching noises.

Clegane gave a loud burst of laughter and strode off forward talking of the ‘blessings of peace.’

“Gendry?” Jon said indicating that he wanted to speak to him as a friend and not his captain.

“Yes, sir?” the young man said as they began to pace along the small quarterdeck together.

“Have you any plans if we are set on shore with this news?”

“Not exactly, sir. I’ll likely go home to my dad and mum and see if they’ve need of me around the farm.”

“Well, if you should like, you could come to Black Castle for a visit. I know my wife would like to see you again.”

“Oh, that is very kind of you, sir. I should be pleased to see Mrs. Snow again.” Gendry paced at his side for a moment longer before he asked, “Is your sister-in-law still there?”

“I wasn’t aware you knew Mrs. Stark.”

“Oh…no, sir. Not your brother-in-law’s wife. I meant Mrs. Snow’s sister…Miss Arya Stark,” the young man said with a blush.

“Yes…yes, she is,” Jon said with a closer look. “I’d forgotten you had met Arya.”

“Yes…twice,” he said with a beaming smile. Seeing Jon’s amused expression, he cleared his throat awkwardly and said, “Excuse me, sir,” before he strode off to speak with one of the men…quite unnecessarily.

“Well, well…” Jon muttered to himself with another smile before going below.

In his cabin later, Jon pulled out pen and ink to write to his wife.

 

_Sweetheart,_

_It is with immeasurable joy that I write to you knowing that this may be one of the last letters I need write you in a good while. Peace has been declared and I am quite certain that once we reach Portsmouth tomorrow, I will soon be coming hope to you and Sophia. I long to see you both and hold you in my arms again._

_It is a strange thing. This war has lasted nine years, nearly all the time I have served in the navy. I do not know what to do with myself if my occupation is indeed at an end. I will of course write to Whitehall for a ship but there are so many more commanders in the service than vessels that fit our rank. Unless I am made post, which is unlikely at present, I could find myself ashore for a very long time._

_Perhaps you think me terrible to complain of such a thing. I pine for you so, my dearest girl, and yet, I know I will miss the sea after a time. Dr. Seaworth told me that such would be the case shortly before I got my step and_ Alayne _. He said I would pine for you while I was at sea and I would in turn pine for the sea when I am at home. If only there were a way to have you, my heart’s desire, with me while I sailed the sea. I suppose if I am not to run melancholy mad ashore, you will have to keep me busy at home. Perhaps I can help you at your school, though I know precious little about the education of young ladies._

_Do not be alarmed by my ramblings, my dear. I am exhausted from little sleep the past several days and I am overjoyed at the thought of seeing you and Sophia again. Ten months is a long time to be parted and I am anxious to see how much our darling girl has grown. And, I miss you, my beloved wife, so very much._

_God bless you, my dear, and give my beloved Sophie a kiss from her papa. And give my dear love to Arya, Talisa and everyone at home as well._

_All my love,_

_Jon_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon returns home. He and Sansa spend time alone together after he is greeted by his daughter and household. Later, Sansa gives him a letter to open.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For my dear beta...Lisa, I hope you enjoy Sandor's 'friend.'

Sansa Snow sat in the small breakfast parlor blowing on her steaming hot morning cocoa with her twin brother and her sister-in-law. Gabriel was buttering his toast and Talisa was rereading a letter from Robb that had arrived yesterday. Sansa took a small sip while hoping for word that Jon would be arriving soon…possibly with the post this morning.  Peace had been declared and she had received a letter from him a fortnight ago anticipating that he would be returning home.

Gabriel had traveled down from the Stark family’s estate of Winterfell a month ago to visit his nieces and help his sisters and sister-in-law with their school for a time. Their father, Sir Eddard Stark, was still in the north with their youngest brother, Rickon.

The butler, Barristan Selmy, came into the room. “Here’s the post, ma’am,” he said with a wink laying a fat bundle of letters down.

“Thank you, Selmy,” Sansa said with a smile.

Selmy was hardly an ordinary butler. In fact, he did not resemble a butler in the slightest with his pierced ears and seaman’s pigtail for he had been a seaman nearly all his life. He had served with Jon in his first ship which had been captained by Sir Jeor Mormont, who was Sansa and Gabriel’s godfather. Selmy had sailed for nearly 50 years but, when he’d returned with _Queenscrown_ from the Antipodes, he had run into Jon outside a tavern in Portsmouth and admitted he was feeling worn out from the life he had always known. Jon had sent him to Sansa at Black Castle asking her to find a place for the old man that had taught Jon so much when he was a newly-joined midshipman.

So, Mrs. Snow had gained a butler who knew very little of wine or how to behave with the urbanity common in butlers but who helped see to it that Black Castle was kept impeccably clean. And he would hardly be the last ageing or disabled sailor to be sent her way by her husband either. The school and house took on a more nautical feel with every new addition. And the little girls in Sansa’s charge, especially her own daughter, gained some knowledge of the sea that perhaps their parents had not intended. Or at least, they gained some knowledge of seamen and the way that they talked. Girlish cries of ‘Avast’ and ‘Belay, mate’ became rather commonplace throughout the house and, when Mrs. Snow and Mrs. Stark were not present, shouts of ‘Come along, you bloody dogs’ and ‘Quit gawping like that, you awkward lubber’ would often be heard as well, particularly around the stables or further from the house in the copses of the estate when the girls were given leisure.

Sansa Snow’s house was something of a wonder and envy to the other ladies of Petersfield. They could not fathom how she managed to keep it so pristine at all times with nearly two dozen little girls to look after and nothing but a rag-tag bunch of seamen, some of whom were missing a limb or two, to look after the place. But for men who were used to rising at 4AM to swab and holystone a deck in all weathers and seasons, the maintenance of a house, even a rather large house, was no great matter. Sansa found that she had little need to ask about the upkeep of the house as the men had their own ideas about what was fitting and proper. And while Sansa tried to reassure them that it was not truly necessary to wash the windows inside and out on a weekly basis or swab and flog the floors of the entire house dry before the sun was quiet up every single day of the year, they would merely smile and knuckle their foreheads at her and then proceed to do just that.

“Anything good in the post?” Gabriel asked as he devoured the last of the eggs.

“A letter for Arya, some bills,” she said sorting through them. “There’s several for our girls. I’m so glad Charlotte’s aunt wrote at last,” she said with a smile. “Hmmm…here’s one I don’t recognize. There’s no indication who it’s from but it was sent from Bath.”

“Bath?” Gabriel inquired, reaching over to snatch it from her hand.

“Gabriel!” Sansa scolded.

“Oh, it’s addressed to Jon,” he said mildly. “He’ll be here soon enough to open it, I suppose.”

“I certainly hope so,” she replied taking it back from her brother with a huff at his impertinence. She studied the letter closely. _Elegant penmanship…most certainly a feminine_ _hand_ , she thought. An unwelcome feeling of unease snaked through her belly as she held the letter for a moment longer and then set it aside.

“Nothing from Jon?” Talisa asked. Sansa didn’t respond. Her face was certainly glowing with a smile as she reached the bottom of the stack where there was indeed a letter from Jon. “Come, Gabriel. Help me set up for my class,” Talisa said then seeing the look on her sister-in-law’s face.

“It’s just a bloody letter. Must she have privacy to read it?”

“Hush and get up,” Talisa hissed.

Sansa cast a grateful look at her and opened her letter.

 

_Sweetheart,_

_The last farewells are over and the Alaynes are a ship’s company no more, but only one or two straggling groups of sailormen making holiday on shore. As I write this, I can hear the forecastle division, the oldest soberest seamen in the ship, kicking up Bob’s a-dying three streets away at a nearby tavern; but most of the rest are already speechless from their excesses. Saying goodbye to so many old shipmates was painful, as you may imagine, and I should be tolerably low in my spirits, were it not for the thought that I shall be seeing you and Sophie in three days’ time…_

 

Sansa’s breath caught in her throat and as she checked the date of the letter. _Three days from…but that would be tomorrow!_

“Selmy!” she cried as she skimmed the rest of the letter. _‘I must report myself to Whitehall soon enough and if you like I thought we could journey there together to visit my uncle_ _or Lord Pyke for a time.’_ “Yes…yes…we will go to London. But first you are coming home,” she said, smiling to herself before calling for Selmy once more.

The man rushed in the room in a panic. “Ma’am?”

“Go and tell Harwin to check over the captain’s horse and then tell one of the lads to have the cart at the inn tomorrow morning when the mail coach arrives to collect his dunnage. And see to it the clock in the hall is properly set. You know how he likes for the clock to be accurate,” she said talking at the speed of a hummingbird and over her shoulder as she hurried from the parlor to find her family.

“Yes, ma’am. Is he…”

“Yes, Selmy,” Sansa said turning to clasp his arm and giving him a radiant smile. “The captain is coming home!”

 

* * *

 

 

Jon Snow looked out the window as the coach slowed to a stop in front of the inn. Petersfield was quiet for a market day. _It is still early_ , he thought. His head was still aching a bit from agreeing to have a final drink with Clegane at a tavern in Portsmouth the previous evening. He shook his head at the memory _. I should’ve known better than to try and keep_ _up with him. I wonder how the rest of his night went_ , Jon thought with a smirk.

They’d stopped at Clark’s Tavern, the establishment of an old, retired soldier, who had a daughter named Elisabeth that had apparently taken a liking to Clegane the last time they’d been in Portsmouth and he’d dropped in. The petite brunette with blue eyes had come over at once and, after giving Jon the once-over, asked Clegane was he back again already with a wink.

“Back already? I’ve been gone over ten months, girl,” he snarled.

“Has it been that long then? I hadn’t noticed,” she responded cheekily. “What’ll you have, Captain?” she asked Jon next with a friendly smile and a subtle touch of his arm that seemed to set Clegane’s teeth on edge.

“Just some ale, miss…or whatever you have,” Jon replied not missing the look the bosun shot him and the woman as she threw her head back and laughed.

“For you then?” she asked Clegane.

“Bring me what you like,” he grumbled.

“What I like? Oh…I’m not sure my father would like that right here in the tavern, you old salt.”

And with that she scurried off in a flurry of skirts and Clegane muttered to himself, “Bloody, buggering hell.”

“Friend of yours?” Jon asked, trying to keep his face neutral and failing miserably.

“You could say that…sir,” was the gruff response he got.

Jon returned to the present and smiled when he saw Hobb and Smith waiting with the cart pulled by an old mare and his horse, a fine, spirited bay stallion. He greeted them cordially but he knew what abysmal horsemen they both were and left them to manage his sea chest with the mare and cart at their own pace. _With a bit of luck, they may make it_ _home before sunset._

He let the stallion set the pace in town, passing the parish church and wondering briefly if Parson Tyrell had already started settling in and taking stock of his ‘lovely parishioners.’ He did not think on him long though for he was soon in the country and it was then that he spurred the horse to a gallop. After so many months at sea, barring a brief time ashore in Jamaica and Portsmouth, it was good to be ashore with the firm, unyielding land beneath his feet…or his horse’s feet at least. And, he had missed riding as he was an excellent horseman and loved the speed and freedom he felt with the wind blowing in his hair while he was riding a truly fine specimen like his bay. _But no doubt I’ll_ _miss the heave of the deck and the breeze and salt in the air as well. I’m also likely to be quite knocked up by the end of the day by the firm, unyielding earth_.

In less than half an hour he was passing through the familiar woods of his estate. He slowed the horse to a trot and was soon entering the stable yard. He swung down off his horse looking for a man to pass the animal off to but none was in view.

“Ahoy, there!” he called. No answer. He sighed and looked towards the house for any signs of Sansa but none were evident. He walked his tired horse into the stables, who was looking rather knocked up himself at present. “Does no one ride you while I am away? You shouldn’t tire so quickly,” he said mildly to his horse as he rubbed the animal down and put away the saddle and reins.

As he left the stables, he heard a roaring. Well, not a roaring perhaps…more of a thin piping of young voices. He peaked out and felt his breath catch in this throat as he saw his daughter and niece racing towards the stables from the woods and shouting to one another.

“Hurry along, slow arse!” Sophie was calling to her cousin. “They’ll be back before long!”

“Wait for me, Soph! And you shouldn’t say arse!” Fanny shouted back.

“Sophie! Fanny!” he called to them with a friendly wave and brilliant smile.

The two little girls froze and stared at him. They were more like twins than cousins at a glance. They were only about a month apart in age. Sophie had his black hair just as Francine had her mother’s and both girls had blue eyes like Sansa and Robb.

They had certainly grown in the past ten months, the squashed little faces gone and the baby fat around of their cheeks and hands nearly nonexistent now. Their little legs were long and slender beneath their skirts and they ran effortlessly with their long pigtails flying along behind them. But in their faces he could still recognize the babes they had been not so long ago.

His heart melted as a wave of affection overcame him for them both, especially his dear daughter. But it appeared to be an entirely one-sided wave of affection.

“The men have all gone to town for the hanging this morning,” Sophie said in her high clear voice looking at him without the least interest. “You should check back tomorrow if you’re looking for work.” And with that she sang out to her cousin again, “Hurry up, Fan! Cook’s making biscuits.”

He watched them run off without a backwards glance at him and his heart gave an agonizing lurch. _It has been over ten months and they are very young_ , he reminded himself. _Let us hope her mother will not be so indifferent to me_.

He paced on towards the house and was pleased to see Selmy waiting at the front door for him with his kindly smile. Jon shook hands with the old man and asked him how he did. He had just started inside when he was nearly bowled over by his sister-in-law, Arya.

“ _Oof_ …Arya,” he gasped, nearly falling over as she leapt into his arms.

“You’re home! You’re home!” she shouted. “Sansa! Get down here at once!”

“I’m glad to see you as well,” he said grinning from ear-to-ear at Arya’s affectionate welcome.

“Did you come alone?” Arya asked next as she peered around him.

“I…well, Edd will be along in a few days of course. Who else would I…”

He didn’t get to finish his question as he heard a strangled cry just then and glanced up from where he stood in the entryway with Arya still glued to his side. Sansa stood on the stair looking at him, nervously patting her hair and fussing with her dress. Her smile was tremulous and delicate and he wanted nothing more than to kiss her till she couldn’t draw breath.

“Jon,” she said softly.

He felt Arya release him and heard footsteps retreating from the hall but he had eyes only for his wife. She was less than fifteen paces away but in that time that they moved towards each other he tried to take in every detail of her, this beautiful woman who he was fortunate enough to call his wife. They stopped by some unspoken agreement with two feet still between them and studied one another in silence for a moment.

“You are…” he started, gesturing towards her futilely. _You are more beautiful than ever I can put into words_.

“You should…” she began, smiling widely now and pointing towards his boots…which were covered in mud.

“Christ…I mean, uh…I’m sorry…” he began as he backed up towards the door.

“Oh, no! Do not worry…” she said despite the tracks he’d left on the carpet and floor.

Whatever more they started to say was immediately drowned out by a hallowing at the door as Sophie and Fanny stomped into the house waving flags, or rather sticks to which they had attached pieces of cloth.

“Girls,” Sansa said a touch sternly. “Lessons are carrying on in the drawing room. Please, be quiet.” She glanced nervously at Jon and took his hand. In a softer tone she said, “Fanny, go and see if your mother has need of you for a moment.” Sophie started to join her cousin until Sansa stopped her. “Sophie, my love…your papa has returned from the sea,” she said gesturing towards Jon with her free hand.

Despite Sansa’s efforts to prepare her, Sophie stood there and stared at him for a full minute without the least knowledge and seemed to be searching the room for some other, more recognizable man. It was exquisitely painful and Jon thought his heart might burst from the sheer agony.

But at last, she remembered her manners and gravely advanced to him and with quite a delicate little curtesy for a four-year-old said, “Good morning, sir,” with a quick glance at her mother to see if this was adequate.

Sansa’s eyes began to well with tears and Jon did not want that as he was certain the combination of Sophie’s indifference and Sansa’s tears would reduce him to a blubbering babe in less than a minute. Most fortunately, Sophie decided to further the conversation by leaning towards him and saying in a stage whisper that her Uncle Gabriel had went over to town for the hanging and had promised to bring back a brand-new hoop for her and Fanny both.

“That is very fine of him,” Jon said, choking down the lump in his throat.

“Did you see Jamaica, sir?” she asked next.

“Sophie, call him Papa,” Sansa prompted.

“Yes, Mama. Did you see Jamaica, Papa?”

“I did.”

“Mama showed me Jamaica in our atlas and she found a print of Jamaica for me, too. She said you sailed your sloop there. It looks pretty. Was it beautiful?”

“Not nearly so beautiful as you,” Jon said hoarsely.

The elfin face scrunched up in uncertainty at his words for a moment before she snorted and then laughed, a pure, sweet sound of childish amusement. And, Jon laughed with her, determined that no tears would spill down his cheeks.

“Won’t you give Papa a hug or kiss, my darling?” Sansa asked. The girl looked uncertain for only a moment before she launched herself into his arms unexpectedly just as her Aunt Ayra had. Jon squeezed her to him and did not want to let go but soon enough she was wiggling to be let down and he released her. “Run along to your auntie now, my dear, and tell her Mama will not be able to help her this morning,” Sansa said, her own cheeks quite wet now.

Sophie dashed down the hall towards the drawing room turning back to wave at him before she quietly opened the door and sedately entered the room where her Aunt Talisa was teaching.

“Jon…I’m so sorry,” Sansa said. “I didn’t know she…”

“It’s quite alright. She’ll come around and…”

“She will. She is already…”

“Jon!” Gabriel called out, coming in the front door with the coveted hoops in hand. “It’s good to see you back again.”

Jon suppressed a groan. He loved his wife’s family but right now he wanted to be alone with his wife for more than thirty seconds. He had been anxious to see his daughter but that had been emotionally taxing and he hadn’t even held Sansa in his arms. _I’ve not even kissed her yet_ , he realized in dismay as Gabriel started to lead him towards the study for a drink.

But, Sansa had always expressed herself openly and honestly with her husband and her siblings and apparently, she’d had enough of waiting for time alone with him as well.

“Gabriel,” she said. “Jon can spend time drinking and talking with you later. My husband has just returned to me after a long absence and I wish to spend time with him now… _alone_.”

“Oh, bloody hell,” Gabriel muttered. “I’ll see you later then,” he said with a smile as he clapped Jon’s shoulder briefly and headed off to deliver the hoops to the girls.

“Well, Mrs. Snow,” Jon said with a smile as they were alone in the hall once more. “May I kiss you at last?”

“Kiss me at once, Mr. Snow, and remind me what it’s like again for I have been without you for far too long,” she said with an arched brow and a sinful pout.

Jon pulled her in his arms and kissed her softly…before devouring her mouth thoroughly, pouring months of longing into a single kiss…as much as possible anyway. Sansa’s lips, Sansa’s mouth and tongue. Her teeth nibbling at his bottom lip. Her hands finding their way up his chest and shoulders and into his hair, removing his hair tie and carding her fingers through his curls as she sighed.

And, Jon relished the taste of her mouth, the smell of her skin and hair. The sound of her sighs and soft moans and feel of her small waist under his hands. Just as his eyes had feasted on her beauty the moment he laid eyes on her again, the rest of his senses were overcome with the desire to take in all of Sansa.

“Is there anything else you’d like for me to remind you of, Mrs. Snow?” he asked in a low voice filled with longing when he pulled back and saw her kiss-swollen lips parted and her eyes dark with desire.

“Yes, now that you mention it…there is,” she purred as her hands returned to his chest.

His cock was hard and straining against his breeches and Sansa looked down and purposely pressed herself against him with a grin that elicited a groan…right before Hobb and Smith traipsed into the hall to carry in his dunnage and welcome their former captain back once more. Jon positioned himself behind his wife just a bit, giving them a quick ‘thanks’ and a smile before asking them to leave his dunnage in the hall.

As soon as they were out of sight, he hoisted Sansa over his shoulder and sprinted up the stairs towards their chambers.

“Jon!” Sansa shrieked though she was laughing. “Put me down! What if one of the maids or girls should see?!”

“I cannot find it in my heart to care right now,” he replied as he gave her ass a playful smack and raced down the hall to their bedroom. “And I had to escape that bloody hall with you before all of England came through the door to welcome me back and try and steal me away from you.”

He shoved the door open with his unburdened shoulder and kicked it closed with his booted foot before he set Sansa back on her feet again. Her face was flushed and she was a bit unsteady after his brutish way of carrying her off like some savage but she did not seem cross at all.

“Jon…I want you,” she hummed in his ear.

“And you shall have me,” he said pulling off his coat and tossing it on the floor. _What would Edd say? I do wonder_ , he thought wryly for one infinitesimal moment before Sansa reached up and pulled her hair from her bun, allowing the cascades of fiery red hair to fall in soft curls past her shoulders, nearly to her waist. “God, Sansa…I have longed to be with you, my darling girl, for precisely 318 days now, you know.”

“You’ve kept count?” she snickered.

“I’ve kept count.”

“You and your fascination with mathematics and measurements,” she laughed as she came to pull his shirt over his head. She turned her back to him and said, “Unbutton me?” while holding her hair out of the way.

Jon’s fingers felt clumsy at the buttons as they had the very first time she’d shyly had him help her unbutton her dress back before they were married and had been forced to share a room for the night in Spain as prisoners. Jon had called her his wife then, hoping to protect her from any untoward advances from their captors, and they’d been placed in a room together that night. _The first time I ever saw her naked…or tasted her_.

He’d lost count of the number of days from that day to this now but he was also quickly losing patience with her buttons. He said a silent prayer that she would not be too vexed as he grasped the fabric on either side of the buttons in his hands and ripped it down to her waist.

“Jon!” she shouted. She turned to him then and she was anything but vexed. She was flushed, her eyes were nearly black now…and she was panting. “Take me,” she commanded. “Show me how much you’ve longed for me the past 318 days. Leave me in no doubt how desperate you’ve been.”

Her voice was deeper than normal and he quivered at the authority in her tone while simultaneously inflamed by the thoughts of having her…on the floor, against the wall…wherever he could get inside of her the quickest. He eagerly pulled his boots off while still standing. It was something of a miracle he did not fall flat on his face, especially when Sansa shoved her torn dress down to the floor leaving her in nothing but her corset, stays, shift and stockings.

“Leave it on,” he growled as she reached for her corset. “I’ll take you there,” he gestured at the settee at the end of their bed.

He tore the lacings on his breeches and, were he not so hard-pressed in his need for Sansa at the moment, he probably would’ve heard Edd tsking at him in his mind. His breeches were gone in a flash and he was fully naked now. He grabbed Sansa ‘round the waist and led her to the settee. He gently laid her back and climbed over her, kissing her mouth, her neck and throat. Working his way down to where the tops of her breasts bobbed over her corset. He kissed each mound and pulled down her corset enough to reveal her nipples and give both due attention. She moaned beneath him, writhing and bucking her hips up towards his straining cock.

“Please Jon…I want…” she sighed trying to push her center up to meet him.

Jon reached down and rucked up her shift to expose her womanhood to him. He ran his hand across the triangle of red hair on her mound and then dipped a finger inside her glistening cunt.

“So wet for me, sweetheart,” he rumbled as he lapped at her nipples in turn. Sansa was becoming incoherent as his finger slid in and out of her effortlessly. Another soon joined the first.

“Jon...now,” she cried. “Please…”

He removed his fingers and sucked at them while staring into her eyes, delighting in the taste of Sansa once more. Her hair was fanned out beneath her on the settee and she was glorious with her dark lips and darkened nipples peeping above her corset still damp from his attentions. He centered the head of his cock at her folds and shoved slowly inside with a grunt and a muffled curse. She was so tight, so wet and all his.

“Fuck…Sansa,” he groaned as he began thrusting in time with the movement of her hips.

“Yes, Jon…I’ve missed you so. Fuck me,” she said softly.

Jon stilled at once and looked at her in wonder. She’d never said _that_ word before. His lady wife excused her salty sailor his language when they were like this but she never engaged in it. For all her fire, she spoke no bawdy language at all.

“Sansa…did you just…”

“It’s been 318 days since we’ve been together…so if memory serves, it’s been 319 since you’ve made love to me. And yes, I said it,” she responded with a wicked little smile.

“Ah…fuck, sweetheart…” he said as his hips started moving once more. He had to bite his lip to keep from spilling immediately. “Say it again,” he begged.

“Fuck me. I’ve longed for your cock for so many months now,” she whispered in his ear.

“ _Unnn_ …Sansa…I’m going to come much too soon.”

“Touch me, Jon,” she said in that commanding tone from earlier that he suddenly wanted to hear more of. He reached between them and began stroking her pearl, teasing it with his thumb and making her gasp.

“Like that, my dear girl? Is that what you like?”

“Yes…oh, yes…Jon…Jon!” she cried before she was reduced to whimpers.

He was grunting with the effort to not crush her as his thrusts increased in speed and intensity. She cried out his name once more as she peaked and when he felt her cunt clamping down on his cock he could hold back no longer.

“Sansa! Oh, fuck… _uhh_ - _unnngh_!”

They lay on the settee for several minutes after basking in the glow of his homecoming and the renewal of their intimate relations. Sansa had discarded her undergarments after their completion. He was on his back now and holding her to his chest, stroking the soft skin of her back and leaning down to kiss her forehead while his other hand played with her silky hair.

“I’ve missed you so much,” he said moving to the bed when she finally rose to use the chamber pot behind the screen. “Have you any notion how many times my mind has wandered from my duty to you, to thinking of making love to you while I was away?” He got no response at first and when she came out from the screen she was blushing. “What?” he asked.

“You were talking to me while I was…” she gestured to the screen.

“And?” he asked with a grin. “Is that not proper, Mrs. Snow? Considering the things you just said to me…”

“Jon…” she sighed with mock exasperation while blushing more furiously now. “I’ll never say them again if you’re going to tease me about it after.”

“Forgive me, sweet girl. You know what things are like aboard. If you don’t want me to say anything to you while you take a…I mean…uh, make water, I’ll try and remember,” he laughed as she threw a pillow at his head from the settee. “But please say whatever you like in my ear when we are together. I liked it…in case you couldn’t tell,” he finished with a devilish leer.

She returned his leer with a sweet smile and then suddenly clasped her hands together, making her breasts bounce and leading Jon’s mind back down a licentious path again.

“Oh! Before I forget…a letter arrived for you from Bath just the other day. I wondered if it could be from your Uncle Brandon but it doesn’t bear his seal and it’s not his hand or Jeyne’s either.”

Sansa rifled around the bureau and Jon laid back on the bed enjoying the view of his wife’s bare ass before she finally found what she was searching for and handed it to him, a letter address to him in an elegant hand with no indication from whom it came.

“I’d rather you come get in this bed with me than read a letter at present, my dear.”

She laid down next to him and he pulled her up close. “Aren’t you going to read it?” she asked after he started nuzzling at her neck, his cock already half-hard again.

“Later,” he mumbled into her sweet, soft flesh.

“It looks like a woman’s hand,” Sansa said…in a different sort of tone.

Jon pulled back and looked at her and saw the question in her eyes. He’d been away a good while and he was a sailor. Lots of things were said about sailors and their infidelities but Sansa had never seemed to lend such talk any credence before…at least not when it came to him. _Who do I know in Bath? And there are no women I correspond with except_ _Sansa_. _It’s not so strange that she would be curious…so I suppose I’d better open the letter and put her mind at ease_ , he finally decided while she continued looking at him.

“Let us see if it’s some long-lost relative trying to bestow on me some unknown fortune, eh?” he joked and was pleased by the lightening of worry in her eyes and the release of a pent-up breath.

He cracked the seal and to his astonishment his joke was not so very far off the mark.

 

_Commander Jon Snow,_

_You do not know me and I am ashamed that circumstances force me to write to you in this manner without ever having made your acquaintance, knowing full well that you may wish to never hear from me or my family considering the pain and shame my eldest brother brought to your dearly departed mother. But I find myself in desperate circumstances with no one else to turn to in my hour of need and you are my last hope…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa quarrel over the letter he received from Bath. Petersfield's new parson comes to call at Black Castle. Jon spends time with his brother-in-law.

The night spent in each other’s arms had melted away their vexation with each other though Jon was not himself the next morning. He stood in front of the mirror in their dressing room tugging at his bottle-green coat irritably before he started grumbling over his cravat again.

“Allow me,” she said soothingly. “Must Edd do this for you at sea?”

“I can tie my own neckerchief…I just don’t care for this one,” he said crossly, though he stood still for her.

“Would you prefer to wear your uniform instead?” she asked.

He grunted and said, “Yes…but that would look bloody ridiculous at home.” He caught her hurt expression and made amends by saying, “I am happy to be at home. I only meant…”

“I know,” she said returning her attention to the cravat.

He was not looking forward to this morning she could tell. She wasn’t exactly either. Parson Tyrell had left his card yesterday afternoon declaring his intention to call on Captain and Mrs. Snow this morning to pay his respects to the captain and make his lady’s acquaintance. Sansa didn’t mind meeting Petersfield’s new parson but she would’ve preferred he not call the day after her husband’s return.

Jon stood stiffly until she finished and once she did she leaned forward unexpectedly and kissed him. He grinned then which pleased her and ardently kissed her back which please her even more. She brushed off his coat and returned to fixing her hair. He moved to the bureau to tie back his hair in a queue and absently patted the remaining curls that would not be contained by the ribbon. Sansa longed to untie the ribbon once more and run her hands through his hair again but now there was no time for that.

Once she had finished her own ministrations, she said, “There now, my love. Shall we go down?”

He nodded and held out his arm. She relished holding on to him as she wished she could hold him always. A seaman’s wife had to accept losing her husband to the sea for months (or years) at a time but Sansa knew she would never happily accept his departures and lengthy absences. But he was home now and she was delighted to have him back for however long she could hold him.

The letter from Daenerys Targaryen had not been mentioned again since their quarrel over it last night after dinner; not in bed this morning nor in the breakfast parlour with the family this morning. Sophie and Fanny had been invited to join their elders at the table and while their table manners as they ate their porridge would not recommend them anywhere, Sansa knew that Jon was used to far cruder manners aboard a man-of-war and not remotely concerned by such things.

The argument last night had been unfortunate. He’d read the letter after they’d made love upon his return and he’d handed it to her to read before dismissing it and saying they could discuss it further later. But despite his earlier intentions prior to her bringing the mysterious letter to his attention so pointedly, he had immediately rose from the bed and dressed saying he wanted to see the rest of the household. Sansa suspected he wanted time to absorb it and think.

He’d spent part of the afternoon talking with Gabriel and Sam Tarly, who was a tutor at her school but also a former shipmate and dear friend of Jon’s, in the study. Then, all the family and Sam had dined with them, leaving the elderly Mrs. Mordane who acted as housekeeper and nanny to dine with the pupils that night. Jon had filled in the family on the latest with Bran who was currently a midshipman aboard his Uncle Benjen’s frigate. And they in turn informed him of the latest news from Winterfell and London.

It wasn’t until they were alone in the drawing room after dinner, when Sansa asked him if he had considered his response to Mademoiselle Targaryen and he had made his assertion that he had no intention whatsoever of responding, that the disagreement had begun. Sansa could not see the harm in sending an answer as the poor young woman was most certainly in distress even if Jon did not wish to travel to Bath right away. But Jon wanted nothing to do with her or any of her kin and felt much more strongly about the matter than Sansa had anticipated.

“What do I care about some woman I’ve never met who suddenly writes to me about a marriage she’s changed her mind about?”

“She didn’t say she’s changed her mind. She said her brother is forcing her to marry a man much older than her and she’s looking for help to escape it.”

“This is a free country we live in, I believe. No one can force her to marry.”

“Jon, I think her brother has her convinced of the opposite and she’s desperate for someone to…”

“Well, she can look elsewhere for assistance! Her brother shamed my mother and refused to acknowledge fathering a child on her!” Sansa raised a hand to her mouth and admonished him not to shout. He lowered his voice and continued, “My mother died in disgrace; shamed, mocked and derided for being a fifteen-year-old girl who in her youthful folly succumbed to an older man’s seduction,” he hissed. “What price did that man ever pay? He was dead before I was breeched but still…And what of me? If Uncle Brandon had not decided to take me in, I would’ve been given up as a foundling. All because that woman’s _brother_ could not resist engaging in a dalliance with a young lady abroad for the first time simply for his own libertine amusements. I want nothing to do with her…or any brother of hers!”

“Jon, I’m not arguing that what your father did to your mother was abominable. But, might I remind you that we were not there. Your uncle was not there either and both of your parents are dead. We may not know the entire story.”

“I know all I care to know of it! I’ve lived with the whispers and the outright insults of being that man’s…that Frenchman’s bastard all my life, Sansa!”

Sansa wanted to go to him then and hold him. She was aware of the pain he had felt from a tender age at being looked down upon over something that was completely out of his hands. But she stood her ground to try and make her point. “I’m sorry, my love. Regardless, his sins are not to be borne by his sister, his much younger sister, are they? And it sounds as though this other brother is trying to do a terrible thing to your…aunt.”

“My aunt,” he huffed. “I’ll call Jeyne my aunt before I ever think of a Targaryen, some French aristocrat at that, as my family.”

Lady Snow, formerly Jeyne Poole, his uncle’s steward’s daughter, had married Jon’s uncle five years ago. She was Jon’s age and, though she and Sansa had become close, she was a bit silly. She’d grown up with Jon and even harbored a not-so-secret passion for him as a girl, daring him to kiss her when they were still quite young. Jon had accepted his uncle’s decision to marry a woman well below his station and several years his junior amicably enough, but he would never call her auntie as Jeyne prodded him to do.

“Jon…I cannot believe you’d be so indifferent to a young lady in such circumstances.”

“Oh, yes…a young lady. She’s two years older than me, you know.”

“Six and twenty is not so old, is it? She is an unmarried lady whatever you may say of her age and her only protector is her brother who seems to think she is a brood mare to be married off for his gain.”

“As I’ve already said, no one can force her…”

“Jon, I know what it is to feel powerless. We women have very little true power or authority in this world and are expected to be grateful for what crumbs we are given while being told that we’re being protected as if we are no more than children. And, I was a married woman when I entered my Aunt Lysa’s house for the last time and you know very well what her and Mr. Baelish tried…”

“That’s completely different, Sansa. You were only seventeen and not an adult in the eyes of the law then regardless of your marital state. Plus, you were forced to think of your younger siblings as well. And what Baelish and his wife attempted to do is unforgivable. Your aunt paid with her life but blood is still owed by Baelish for what he’s done.”

Sansa sighed, knowing she shouldn’t have mentioned her aunt and her husband, Mr. Baelish. Jon grew so dark and foreboding at the mere thought of the man that had tried to steal Sansa’s dowry and had betrayed his country by selling secrets, information he had access to thanks to his post in government, to the French. He had killed his wife, Sansa’s aunt, after they’d been forced to flee when their plans were disrupted by Lysa’s mad jealousy and her impetuous decision to push her pregnant niece down a flight of stairs.

She decided to try a new tactic. “My love, you’ve been at sea for so much of the time during this war. Perhaps you do not know what life is like for so many of the émigrés here. Many are quite destitute having escaped the Terror with no more than their lives and the clothes on their back.”

“I don’t bloody care about the hardships any French aristocrats have suffered, Sansa! They have only themselves to blame for it’s their own hedonistic and self-centered behaviour for centuries that led to the revolt of the mob which in turn has led to our two countries being at war and causing infinite bloodshed for nearly a decade now!” he roared.

He had never spoken so heatedly to her and Sansa shrank back at once. She was no cowardly mouse but his fury in this instance was not to be dismissed lightly. And, she knew it was years of command that brought out this particular tone of voice that was rarely heard when he spoke to her. He regretted the ferocity of his response at once she knew by the way he ducked his head and started to apologize but her own temper was roused now.

“We obviously see so differently in this matter that there can be no point in speaking of it further this night. I need to see our daughter to bed. Excuse me,” she said before she swept from the drawing room allowing him no chance to stop her.

She’d been tucking Sophie in and singing a song, a seamen’s shanty in truth that Selmy had taught the girls and Sophie dearly loved, when she saw him standing hesitantly in the doorway to his daughter’s bedroom, uncertain of his welcome by either party at present. Sansa’s anger withered away at once. He was home…and still feeling the sting of his daughter’s less-than-enthusiastic greeting this morning on top of quarreling with his wife. She could hardly blame him if he didn’t want to run off to Bath to help some relative he’d never met. It wasn’t as though Sansa wanted him to leave again.

“Sophie, my love, do you think Papa knows ‘Fiddler’s Green’ as well?” she asked their daughter as she gave him an encouraging smile. _You belong here with us_.

“That’s a forecastle song, Mama. Papa is an officer. Selmy said the officers don’t sing forecastle songs.”

“Rubbish,” Jon said walking into the room. “When I was a midshipman, we sang all the same songs as the men and many officers do as well.”

“Truly, Papa?”

“Yes.”

“Will you sing it with me then?” she asked next.

Sansa smiled at Jon’s momentary hesitation. She knew he was not especially fond of singing, not his own singing anyway. He had always loved to hear her sing. But now, she was indulged with a rare treat as she sat on her daughter’s bed enjoying the sound of her husband’s deep voice singing the shanty with their daughter’s sweet, high piping. Jon sat on the other side of Sophie and stretched out his hand to her. Sansa gladly accepted it at once and looked down at his warm and callused hand holding her own.

After they kissed their daughter good-night, they went to their room and made love again. Slower and more gently than they had earlier in the day, but no less passionately.

“I don’t want to fight with you ever, my darling girl,” he said as he held her afterwards.

“Nor I with you. We are married though and it happens…just not so often with us.”

“Because I am away so much,” he chuckled.

“No, because we rarely disagree,” she said, enjoying his arms around her and the scent and feel of her husband at home and in their bed at long last. _Please, God…may he never_ _leave it again_ , she thought. But then she knew what folly that was and amended her wish. _At least let us enjoy our time together as best we can for however long we have_.

 

* * *

 

 

Mr. Tyrell had called at the exact time he had promised and the visit had been going on for nearly thirty minutes. And, Sansa sat sipping her tea wondering where Mr. Tyrell ever hoped to find a wife who would love him half so well as he obviously loved himself…or rather the idea of himself. _Perhaps it does not matter to such a man_.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t be charming. He was quite charming. It wasn’t that he wasn’t intelligent and witty for he was those things as well. But the obvious self-satisfaction he clearly felt when speaking of himself went well beyond a healthy sense of self-esteem into an almost aggressive desire to be admired and favored by everyone he met. His accomplishments, his natural endowments, his fashionable friends and connections and his fortune were, in his opinion it seemed, a never-ending source of astonishment and interest to the world in general. _What would Papa think of him, I wonder?_

Sansa didn’t need to ask what Jon thought of him. It was quite obvious and she silently sighed to herself as her husband sat in his chair brooding across from their guest and making no real effort to conceal his displeasure when Mr. Tyrell ran on a bit longer than necessary regaling them with some tale of his conquests on the cricket fields at Cambridge. Granted, Jon had sailed him across the Atlantic and had no doubt had a belly-full of his company aboard the _Alayne_. And she suspected the letter from yesterday was still weighing heavily on his mind.

Perhaps it was Jon’s behaviour that prompted Sansa to make more of an effort than was strictly called for to make the new parson feel welcomed. “Oh, Mr. Tyrell, you are too witty,” she had tittered politely at his anecdote regarding the parsonage’s parsnips. She found herself at a loss as to why that comment would cause Jon’s head to turn sharply towards her but, as he furrowed his brow in a manner she recalled very well from her time aboard _Queenscrown_ , she began to suspect from what emotion exactly Jon’s principle dislike of Willas Tyrell might stem…jealousy. She smiled inwardly to herself and sipped her tea again. _There is no need to be jealous and I will gladly show you as much once he_ _leaves…_ if _he ever leaves_ , she finished dismally to herself.

“You are very kind, Mrs. Snow. I have never claimed to be a great wit although some of my friends have mentioned that I have a…well, anyway,” he finished with a sudden flash of self-consciousness and the thought that perhaps he was carrying on rather more than was acceptable in his present company. He cleared his throat with a glance at Jon and changed topics.  “I know there are many in need in our community and perhaps you ladies,” he said inclining his head towards Sansa and Talisa, “would be willing to help me organize some charitable works…when your admirable and no doubt taxing work here at your school permits of course.” Sansa and Talisa both opened their mouths to speak but Mr. Tyrell carried on, “And if it’s not too much of an imposition, and your husbands do not mind, I would take it very kindly if you’d be willing to visit my humble abode,” he added. “My house is sadly lacking a woman’s touch and I’d be most eager to hear any recommendations or additions you could suggest.” His smile then was tentative and Sansa noted the way he eyed Jon apprehensively.

“Sansa may do as she wishes naturally,” Jon answered before rising to excuse himself from the room with no more than a muttered ‘pardon.’ Sansa was flummoxed by his sudden disappearance but he soon returned with Gabriel and Arya in tow. “I thought you might like to make the acquaintance of my brother-in-law and other sister-in-law, Mr. Tyrell,” Jon said cordially then. “They are both quite eager to make yours.”

Arya and Gabriel both looked anything but quite eager to meet the new parson. Sansa wondered if Jon had drug Gabriel away from flirting with one of the maids and Arya just looked suspicious of Jon’s motives. She was always suspicious when she was brought in to meet unmarried men and Sansa knew why perfectly well. It was one of the reasons she’d not insisted on Arya being present for this call.

Whatever Jon meant by dragging the rest of the family in to meet with the parson, he seemed to smile more now that Mr. Tyrell had someone new to impress with stories of his prowess during a fox hunt or his smashing successes on the green when he was at Cambridge. Gabriel could behave quite well in company when he wished but Arya was notorious for expressing her annoyance when the company did not suit…as it did not at present. However, Mr. Tyrell seemed undeterred and in fact seemed to address a majority of his attention to her sister now. _Poor Arya…or poor Mr. Tyrell if he gives his heart to her for she will not return it_.

Talisa asked quite innocently during a lull in conversation about Jon and Sansa’s plans to travel to London in a few days-time and Mr. Tyrell was immediately compelled to ask questions.

“Will you be staying long? Where might you stay? Have you been to London often? Do you know so and so or such and such person? Have you ever been presented at Court by your father, Mrs. Snow? Do you still perform from time to time, Mrs. Stark?  But perhaps Major Stark does not like for his wife to perform in public.  Did you ever have a season there before the captain captured your hand, Mrs. Snow?”

 _Officious, conceited and prying…that is what Papa would think of you, I believe. It is certainly my opinion_ , she decided as she finished her tea and answered the overly inquisitive questions one by one.

“I must send a letter of introduction for you to my sister, Mrs. Snow. Margaery adores discovering new friends and she loves surrounding herself with beautiful and witty women, especially married ones. She says it makes the men all flock to her circle and then flock to her when they find she is the only rose not yet plucked,” he finished with a hearty laugh.

Gabriel and Jon both expelled at great huff of air causing the parson to jerk slightly and slosh his tea and Sansa could not help but smirk, though she tucked her chin to hide it from them all.

At long last, he had had enough of entertaining them all it seemed and he bid them good day.

“Good God, Sansa. Please tell me you won’t be inflicting him upon us very often,” Gabriel said as he flopped on the sofa once Jon had left to walk their guest to the door.

“Not if I can help it,” she said with a laugh at her twin. “But he is our parson, Gabriel.”

“Then, it’s probably time I head back north to Winterfell…or turn agnostic.”

“Amen, amen,” sighed Arya. “I’ve got lessons to teach,” she said as she left them all.

“You could always come to church with me, Gabriel,” Talisa offered sweetly. She was Italian and a Catholic and did not attend the Anglican services.

“Thank you, my dear. I would gladly attend Mass with you sometime if you don’t fear the place would catch fire when this heretic and sinner crossed the threshold. But that reminds me of another beloved heretic…when will my big brother be returning at last? I’d hoped to see him before I return to Father and Rickon.”

“A few more weeks,” Talisa answered, blushing a lovely shade of pink despite her olive skin.

“Good,” Jon said walking back in at the tail end of the conversation. “It has been terribly long since I’ve seen Robb. Sansa, may I borrow you for a moment?”

“Of course, my love.”

Sansa followed Jon from the room expecting him to lead her to the nearby study or parlour. Instead, he grasped her hand and lead her up to their room. They had barely made it in the door when he turned suddenly and grasped her by the waist. She let out a shrill yelp as he pressed her against the door.

“This will do,” he said with a wicked look.

“Oh really, Captain…what are you thinking?” she asked smiling for she liked seeing him this way.

“I’m thinking I wish to pluck _my_ rose now,” he replied before pulling her firmly to him and devouring her lips with his mouth.

“You were jealous!” she laughed, breaking away momentarily. “Honestly, Jon!” she continued batting at his busy hands half-heartedly. “You’ve no need to be, you know.”

“I can’t help it. He made comments at table the last time I invited him to dine aboard about meeting you and…well, it doesn’t matter now,” he said, blushing a bit despite himself.  “I just…”

“Wanted to remind me of what a possessive beast you are?”

“Very much,” he growled as he leaned in to kiss her neck.

“I can’t complain about that truly,” she said, feeling delightfully limp in his arms and wanting him to continue, “but I’m afraid I am to instruct the older girls in their French lesson in ten minutes-time.”

“I couldn’t persuade you to be a bit tardy for your lessons, could I, Mrs. Snow?”

“Perhaps I could be persuaded…” she sighed as he continued his attentions to her neck; his tongue, lips and teeth leaving her quite breathless, all while his hands roamed over her back and bottom and his hard cock was pressed to her belly. “I suppose a moment or two couldn’t hurt,” she said, already growing slick with desire as he began rucking up her skirts and kneeling before her. “But I may have to punish you for it later.”

“Punish me?” he asked with a devilish grin. “But you’re the one who’ll be tardy. Perhaps I will need to discipline you.”

“Yes, but you’re making the instructor late so…oh, never mind…” she cried when she felt his tongue swipe her folds. “Your making…an excellent…argument… _ohhh_ …for being… _ahhh_ …tardy…” she panted before she lost the ability to speak further and resigned herself to moaning and clutching at his hair, grateful for the door to hold her upright when Jon swept one of her legs over his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon pulled off his cravat and jacket after having thoroughly debauched his wife before she’d scurried away adjusting her skirts but neglecting to fix her rather messy hair while stating that she simply could not stay a moment longer. He did not mind. He did not want to lead her away from her pupils for too long but he’d not been able to resist having her again. And, the taste of Sansa on his lips was something he hoped to relish every day for however long he was to be at home.

He rose and chanced to see the letter from Mademoiselle Targaryen laying on the bureau where he’d left it yesterday. All the tension and unease that Sansa had taken away from him moments ago were back at once and he grimaced. As a gentleman, he did not like to think of any lady in distress and being forced into an unhappy arrangement. But, his distaste for his father, his father’s way of life and everything to do with the him, made it quite difficult to summon much gentlemanly or familial concern for any relative of his.

He walked over and read over her words again.

 

_‘Viserys says this match is necessary as we are quite penniless now and he says he can no longer tolerate the way Mr. Mopatis disrespects him.  My brother is still quite convinced that the Revolution will be a failure in the end and we will be returned to our rightful place.  I know that he is unsound in this belief.  He says it is my duty as a woman and as his sister to help our family take back what is ours in any way he deems useful since I am in a position to do so. But Mr. Frey is nearly sixty years my senior, sir, and I do not wish to be his wife. I have been working as a governess for an acquaintance of his in Bath for the past five years._ _I do not ask for much out of life and do not expect much in return but I had hoped that perhaps I would be allowed to enjoy a quiet spinsterhood at least. I do not wish to marry unless it is for love and forgive me for being so direct but I am already certain I could never be brought to love Mr. Frey._

_I know how presumptuous it is of me to write to you asking for help considering everything. I do not even know what to ask of you though I assure you I seek no monetary relief from you. I should be ashamed to ask that given my brother Rhaegar’s actions. I only wish to be left alone to continue working for the Charltons or in some other suitable household and I am hoping that perhaps you would come and meet us and speak with my brother or write to him at least...’_

 

Jon felt angry all over again and threw the letter back down before fleeing the room and the house to go riding. He would enjoy working up a good sweat on his horse since he could not work up the kind of sweat he wished to with Sansa again at present. As he reached the stables, he found Gabriel saddling his own horse.

“Were you going riding?” he asked.

“I am. Do you wish to join me or should you prefer to be alone?” Gabriel asked eyeing him closely.

Sansa and Gabriel were twins. Sansa had once told him they were like two sides of the same coin; different and yet complementary. Even when they quarreled, they seemed to always understand one another. _And me as well, I believe_.

“I should enjoy riding with you,” he replied. “Though I cannot promise that I am very good company this morning.”

Gabriel chuckled and mounted his horse. “Race you to the brook then?”

“Agreed,” Jon said at once, springing up and racing from the yard, thankful for this contest to clear his mind of worries and ease his irritation.

They rode hard out to the furthest reaches of the estate’s woods before reaching the brook. Jon was pleased to note that despite his time being held in captivity and tortured in Spain Gabriel was quite recovered now, never mind a missing fingernail or two. They dismounted to let their horses drink and enjoyed a companionable silence for a time.

At last Gabriel spoke though and said, “I was glad you and Sansa seemed in harmony this morning…after your disagreement last night.” Jon looked up in surprise. “Sorry. The house is not so large that one can’t hear you when you're shouting. You speak quite gently to my sister most of the time. It was strange to hear you speak in that tone and I waited outside the door to make certain that I was not needed.”

“Were you planning to burst in and bloody my nose then?” he asked with a smirk.

“Certainly,” Gabriel replied with an easy grin. “Be grateful I’m not Robb. He wouldn’t have lingered outside the door. He would’ve burst in, bloodied your nose and then asked questions later. Might I ask…forgive me. It’s not my business,” he said awkwardly then.

“No, it’s alright. I received a letter from Bath…from my…well, the man that fathered me, his sister wrote asking for some assistance. Apparently, her other brother is trying to force her into a marriage.”

“Do you know with whom?”

“A Mr. Frey, I believe.”

“Walder Frey?” Gabriel asked incredulously.

“I don’t know his Christian name. He is quite elderly from what she states.”

“That would be Walder. He’s an ass, near with this money and untrustworthy. Father loathes him. He’s also had nine wives I’ve been told. He’s outlived them all and has a tremendous brood of children by them…and natural children as well,” he finished, turning from Jon uncomfortably then.

“He does not sound agreeable at all. But, I have never met her. I know you are not unaware of who my father was and what…” Jon trailed off not wishing to rehash it all again.

“I know,” he said. “It would not make one inclined to assist any of his kin.”

“I do not wish to have anything to do with her but Sansa believes…”

“That you are a hero and will always answer the call of any damsel in distress.”

Jon could only laugh at that. “I’m certainly no hero.”

“You are to her,” Gabriel said mildly. “Just as you will be to your daughter, once Sophie gets to spend more time with you.” They were nearly back to the house when Gabriel said, “I have a large acquaintance in Bath from the time I spent there recuperating after Spain. I return for a few weeks each year with Father. If you like, I could send a discreet note to some of my friends there. I could learn a bit more of your…aunt and the uncle, too, if you wish before you commit yourself to anything.”

“That is very kind of you to offer. If it wouldn’t be any trouble…”

“It’s no trouble, Jon…not for the man who claims he is no hero but who risked his neck to help rescue me from Spain.”

“That was Oberyn and his men,” Jon argued.

“True. But you played your part in it and I shall not forget it.”

 

When Sansa came upon him sitting at his desk in the study after lessons were done, she sat in the chair before him and told him more of the girls she was instructing and the school in general. It had been quite successful…for what Sansa intended. There were girls from well-off families there but some that were from less prosperous homes that would never have received such an education without his wife’s determination to teach any girl that wished to learn. She was also instructing several of the village children from the lower classes, and even some of their parents, to read twice a week in the church and hoped that Mr. Tyrell would be willing to continue the arrangement.

Jon reminded her that Edd would be arriving the next day to unburden them all from care…or to nag them all to death…and Sansa said she would be glad to see him. He then mentioned he’d asked Gendry to come for a visit and asked if she had any objection.

“To Gendry? Of course not,” she responded. “I believe I would not be the only one to take pleasure in his company again.”

“Ah ha,” he said with a grin. “I suspected as much when he asked after Arya not long before we reached Portsmouth.”

“Not long before you reached Portsmouth, Mr. Snow? Well, how terribly perceptive of you. You’ve sailed with him for nearly five years,” she said dryly.

“Are you suggesting I’ve been missing something, Mrs. Snow?”

“Only that he and Arya have fancied each other since the very first time they met...five years ago…and she blushes the most becoming pink whenever his name is mentioned. Has he never given you any indication before…”

“It’s hardly as though we sit around discussing our love life aboard ship. At least, the men and officers under me didn’t discuss such matters with me.”

“No, I suppose not,” she said with a nod. “What are you writing, my love?” she asked as he finished scratching with his quill.

“A letter…to Mademoiselle Targaryen,” he said. Sansa’s eyebrows arched and she smiled. “It is only a letter and I make no promises to her or to you.”

“I understand,” she said solemnly but the pleasure was clear upon her face. When he had finished and sealed it, she rose and came to sit in his lap. She brushed his hair back out of his face. “I love you,” she said. “You are a very good man and I admire your willingness to at least give her some consideration.”

“I love you, too. You are an excellent woman and I only hope neither of us will regret making her acquaintance before this is over…if we get that far, that is.”

 

* * *

 

 

“What does you nephew say, Mademoiselle?”

“He…he only says that he is sorry to hear of my circumstances. He mentions that he has only just returned home and that he is expected in London to report to his superiors in a few days. I do not presume to hope for much, Ygritte. I’m surprised he responded at all.”

There was a creak on the floorboards outside the governess’s small room. _At least she has her own room_ , Ygritte thought.

“En français,” Ygritte whispered.

The two women switched to their native language. Mrs. Charlton was a kind woman but nosy. She prided herself on her ability to speak French but in truth she could barely string two sentences together without a mistake and she could never keep up with her children’s governess or her French maid when they started speaking rapidly together in their mother tongue.

Daenerys’s head started to droop to her chest. She was such a cowed little thing at times. _Too many years of Viserys and his poison_. Ygritte shook her head and sometimes wished to shake Dany out of her apathy and her meekness.

“Do not lose hope. Your nephew will come and put a stop to this marriage nonsense.”

“Why should he? He has no reason to help me, no reason at all. If our roles were reversed, would I help him? Viserys certainly would not.”

“You’ve not mentioned writing to him to Viserys, I trust?”

“Of course not. Do you think I’m an imbecile?”

“No,” Ygritte replied.

“Why are you so confident he will help me?” Dany asked.

“Because, it’s the sort of man he is. He is a hero, a champion, though he is too modest to think of himself that way.”

“And how do you know this? You have never told me all of it.”

“It’s a long story.” _Actually, a rather short one but I don’t wish to shake your confidence even more_. “He saved me. He spared me. I know enough of him to know that he will come.” _To you…and to me, I hope_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note-Dany will be much more as she is at the beginning of AGoT. She has no Drogo to make her a Khaleesi and no dragons. She is a cowed woman who's been under her brother's thumb all of her life. And, Ygritte's story will come out later.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa visit London. Sansa is frustrated over the amount of time they're spending apart and Jon isn't pleased by it either. Jon visits the Admiralty and is asked to recount an unsettling event from a couple of years earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning-Mentions of rape in this chapter of women aboard a ship by seamen. Brief violence.

“Good morning, ladies,” Jeyne said as she and Sansa curtsied to greet their morning callers. “It’s a pleasure to welcome you to my home.”

“The pleasure is all ours, Lady Snow,” the older woman said in a tone that belied that statement. She glanced at the drawing room, making a quick assessment. Sansa suspected she found it suitably grand enough for she gave a slight nod to herself and said, “It was kind of you to invite us.” Oleanna Tyrell was whispered to be a rather intimidating woman and Sansa could see clearly that those whispers were well founded. She wondered how on Earth a somewhat silly girl like Jeyne who was a servant’s daughter in truth had managed to make much of connection with a family like the Tyrells but then again Jeyne was a Baroness now and Sansa supposed a title had the advantage of drawing all sorts of people into her circle regardless of her birth. Mrs. Tyrell turned her sharp and intelligent eyes on Sansa and the younger woman had the strangest urge to flinch. It was not often that Sansa was intimidated by others. There was no need to be though for a smile soon appeared on Mrs. Tyrell’s face. “It’s lovely to meet you at last, Mrs. Snow. We’ve heard such praise from my grandson, Willas, about you.”

“Oh, thank you. I’m afraid Mr. Tyrell is too kind.”

“Oh, Willas is not one to run on about anyone excessively without cause…except himself. And we’ve been most anxious to make your acquaintance. Haven’t we, Margaery?”

“Yes, Grandmother,” the Rose of Highgarden replied. The young woman emerged from her grandmother’s wake and said, “It is such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Snow,” with a warm, friendly voice with bright and eager eyes. “I’ve looked forward to it immensely.”

“Thank you, Miss Tyrell. It’s a pleasure to meet you as well.”

“Shall I ring for tea?” Jeyne asked and the ladies murmured their acquiescence before finding places to sit.

Sansa and Jon had journeyed to London four days earlier and were staying at his uncle’s townhome. They had initially planned to take Sophie along with them as Jon argued that he had no wish to be parted from his daughter again so soon after finding some measure of tolerance and acceptance from her but then the poor girl had caught a mild cold and the doctor had said it would be best to leave her at home. Sansa had considered staying behind but Talisa and Arya had been quite adamant that they could care for a case of the sniffles well enough and urged Sansa to enjoy this brief time alone with her husband. _Well, we’re not quite alone here_.

Jon’s uncle was desirous of his nephew’s company, much to Jon’s surprise. _‘He never seemed to want me about when I was a boy.’_ And Jeyne was delighted to have her friend’s company again. So, Sansa’s first full day in town had passed in whirlwind of being ushered from drawing room to drawing room to meet some of Lady Snow’s acquaintances. The calling cards had started flowing to Lord Snow’s home the next day. Yesterday, there’d been a levee at Court that Uncle Brandon had insisted Jon attend with him. Jon had already been to the Admiralty twice now in as many days; first, to report himself and then today he’d been recalled over some matters regarding one of the _Alayne’s_ missions off the coast of Normandy.

Sansa sorely missed her daughter as they had never before been parted for more than a day. However, being held by Jon each night and waking up in his arms every morning helped to take her mind off that somewhat. And while Sansa had not spoken of it aloud yet, she hoped that this peace might mean a sibling for Sophie before it was over. _No one_ _could say we’re not taking every opportunity there_ , she thought with an inward smile.

Margaery Tyrell was a lovely young woman close in age to Sansa with light brown hair and a very fashionable air. Her family, much like Sansa’s father’s family, had made their money in trade. That had been a few generations ago though in the Tyrell’s case but some of the gentry might still have chosen to look down upon them were it not for Oleanna Tyrell. Margaery’s grandmother was a formidable and indefatigable woman who behaved with all the haughty grace of any queen and still managed to be approachable and all the while pushing her son to make the proper connections for the sake of his children. Margaery was certainly approachable as well as clever and amusing company Sansa decided as they sipped their tea that morning. _She is far more tolerable company than her brother_ , Sansa thought with a sigh.

Parson Tyrell had been perfectly cordial when Sansa, Sophie and a rather reluctant Jon had attended services at church the first Sunday after Jon’s return, but her initial impression of someone who held themselves in far too high esteem remained. She hoped that assisting him with his charitable works and the matter of the parsonage needing a ‘woman’s touch’ would not wind up being too vexing for herself or Talisa.

Sansa regarded Miss Tyrell and wondered where the differences in temperament came from as Margaery lacked her elder brother’s unhappy quirk of endless boasting. _But then there are differences between myself and all my siblings._

Sansa considered the differences between herself and Margaery as well. Though they were close in age, their lives had been quite different. They had both lost their mothers at an early age but Sansa had been the eldest daughter of Sir Eddard and taken on the role of mothering and teaching her younger siblings at quite a tender age. She had become the mistress of her father’s home; helping to run her father’s household, keeping the household accounts and acting as hostess for her father before she was even wearing stays regularly under her dresses. She had married rather young for a girl of her station and was not only a mother and the headmistress of a school.

Margaery was the youngest child and only daughter of her family. She had been adored and indulged all her life by her father, her elder brothers and her grandmother. She had lived a carefree life, flitting from interest to interest. And, she was still unwed. She was two and twenty and would have a handsome dowry. However, her reputation had been a bit blown upon the past year. There was no need to panic yet but rumors had surfaced in London the previous season that Miss Tyrell might be something of a flirt and that perhaps she preferred being pursued above ever being caught. In fact, an ugly tale has surfaced that the Rose of Highgarden may have even been plucked a time or two though no marriage had resulted.

None of that mattered to Sansa. Even if the rumors were true, she saw no reason for Margaery Tyrell not to hold her head high. Sansa had long held her own opinions about the double-standard regarding the behaviour of young ladies versus that of gentlemen. Her own dear brother, Robb, had frequented brothels with his friend, Theon, before his marriage and Gabriel, though no rake, was not above chasing anything in skirts it seemed. No one thought the less of them for it. Robb’s marriage to Talisa, an Italian singer, had caused more of an uproar than any of his behaviour when he was still a bachelor.

But had it been known that Miss Sansa Stark had shared a bed with her beloved Mr. Snow prior to their marriage, regardless of the fact that she was still a virgin the next morning, she would’ve been disgraced beyond recall, a pariah to never be acknowledge in society again and her younger sister would’ve borne the stain of her sin as well.

Margaery broke in upon Sansa’s musings when she said, “You must be very busy between your daughter and your school, Mrs. Snow. I quite admire a lady such as yourself that does not fritter her time away in idleness.”

“Yes…if only you spent more time acting as Mrs. Snow does rather than admiring her,” Mrs. Tyrell said. “Perhaps you would not be so idle, Margaery.”

“Grandmother,” Margaery protested. Her grandmother gave her an indulgent smile in return and Sansa was certain that this was a common little game between them.

Lord Snow’s butler entered the room and said, “Lord Pyke is here, madam. He asks if Mrs. Snow is at home.”

Sansa looked to Jeyne who smiled and nodded before she said, “I am always at home for Lord Pyke, Bennett. Please show him in.” Sansa turned to the Tyrells and said, “I hope you will forgive me and not mind the intrusion but he is an old family friend.”

Theon walked in soon after wearing a bright blue coat, black breeches, and a mischievous grin. He paced forward with the intention of taking her into his arms no doubt for an embrace before he noticed her company. _He probably hoped to stir Jon’s ire with one of his little displays_. Theon could not seem to resist teasing Jon in such a way. _Not that I_ _would complain_ , Sansa thought remembering how well she liked it when her husband’s possessive nature was roused.

However, when Theon realized that Captain Snow was not present and Mrs. Snow was not alone, he paused at once and adapted a sober though amiable expression, and waited to be introduced. He was pleasant company and Sansa thought perhaps the Tyrells did not mind meeting the Earl of Pyke. In fact, from the looks Margaery gave him and the tinkling laugh she gave at all his quips, Sansa suspected at least one Tyrell was quite pleased to make his acquaintance.

“Where is Jon?” Theon asked after Jeyne had escorted the ladies out of the room.

“The Admiralty again. Outside of our room, I’ve barely laid eyes on him the past three days. His uncle was making threats at breakfast of a trip to the club tonight so no doubt Jeyne and I will sit by the fire chatting until I grow stupid with fatigue while Jon is kept out all hours drinking and gaming at Black’s. Am I ever to have any time with my husband while we are in town? Our bed is the only place I can command his full attention and…” Sansa broke off and blushed at what she had said and what she had nearly said aloud and Theon laughed.

“That is the way of things here in London. You’ll have to take him back to Petersfield if you want him to yourself. Beyond the bedroom that is,” Theon finished with a leer.

“Don’t be impertinent, Theon,” she warned with a laugh and arched brow. “And it is nearly as bad there anyway. The school keeps me quite busy but he is always off somewhere. Gabriel is eager for male companionship, I know but Jon seems content in his company.” _More than mine at times_ , she thought. “They are constantly gone riding or fishing it seems! Robb will return soon and no doubt want to take him and Gabriel gaming and hunting or whatever it is gentlemen do with their time in the country.”

“All of those things, I imagine. Seems like it’d be rather dull to me,” Theon said flicking a piece of lint off his coat. “It’s why I prefer London.”

“His steward arrived shortly before we left and confirmed that one of his officers would be coming to stay before long, so there will be another man to take his attentions away.”

“Better than another woman,” Theon said dryly.

Sansa rolled her eyes but nodded and continued, “Of course, at home we are with Sophie each day, which I’m not complaining about that, but there is no time alone except at night. Not that being alone at night is a bad thing but…don’t you start,” she finished.

“Poor Sansa,” he smirked.

She wanted to laugh with him but she suddenly wished to express aloud the fear that gnawed at her, the one she didn’t like to acknowledge. “I know I am whining when I truly have little cause but sometimes…Theon, what if he…he’s not been home very long. We’ve been so busy with this and that but what if he grows tired of me? Of being at home with me? Life aboard is different he says and I can tell he misses the sea already and what if…”

“Shush, sweetling,” Theon said then with a sincere look and a light touch of her hand before the tears that had started to gather in her eyes at such a thought could spill. “Jon is extremely devoted to you and to Sophie. No man could be more so. He is a seaman through and through and he misses his natural element…now, don’t look like that and let me finish. He misses the sea but he misses you more when you are parted. I’d wager my last five pounds on it and you know I don’t have all that many pounds to wager,” he joked before continuing. “He loves you and Sophie more than anything in this world, including the Navy. So, don’t fret…it’ll give you wrinkles before your time.”

Sansa smiled and grasped her friend’s hand lightly before returning her hands to her lap. “Thank you. You are a dear friend to listen to me moan and complain. Oh! And I haven’t even mentioned the other matter that is fretting me. We received a letter shortly before his return. His father’s sister has reached out to him though they have never met and is asking for some assistance. He may very well wind up traveling to Bath to meet with her and see what he can do.”

“His father’s sister?” Theon asked, knowing that Jon never discussed the late marquis or any family of his father’s.

“Yes…don’t say anything unless he mentions it. It’s rather a sore subject between us at times.”

“Does he want to go and you are against it?”

“No…I have pushed him to go. He is not fond of the idea,” she said uneasily. She knew he didn’t want to go at all. “I thought perhaps if he had some sort of matter to deal with, some occupation, he would not pine for the sea so much.”

“I see,” Theon said. “You’re being silly to worry so about him missing the sea, I believe. But, if he decides to go to Bath, I believe you should travel with him.”

“Me? I hadn’t really…” Theon raised his brows at her. “Alright, I had considered it but I don’t wish to leave Sophie for an even longer period of time and I hate burdening Arya and Talisa with the school to run alone.”

“I’m sure they could manage for what? A week? Two at most?”

“Perhaps.”

“Sansa, consider how difficult this meeting might be for Jon. He might need you.”

“I supposed that you’re right,” she said, guilty that she had not considered it as thoroughly as she should.

“Good. Now you go to Bath if Jon wishes to go…and only if Jon wishes to go. Don’t force him.” She opened her mouth to object but Theon cut her off. “I know how you can be when you want something, Sansa. You were quite conniving as a child when you wanted sweets, you know. Robb and I would get into so much trouble stealing from the kitchens at Winterfell on your behalf until your mother would catch us and threaten us both with whippings.”

“I’d forgotten that,” she said softly.

“Of course, you did. You were only three or four and already had us all wrapped around your little finger. Jon is quite helpless to your wishes, I imagine. So, if you go to Bath, you should find your own rooms somewhere and you can have Jon all to yourself when you are not visiting with his aunt.”

“Jon all to myself? I like the way you think, Theon,” Sansa smiled. “And, I’ve never been to Bath.”

“Well, it’s high time some female appreciates my brilliant mind. Speaking of females, tell me your thoughts of Miss Tyrell. I’ve heard of her of course but I should value your opinion far more than any gossip.”

 

* * *

 

 

“And what exactly was the crew doing, Captain Snow?” the secretary asked.

Jon listened to the clock ticking as he stood before the long desk in front of the admiral and his secretary. The pen scratched across the parchment. Jon clasped his hands behind his back with his hat tucked between his body and his elbow and cleared his throat before answering.

“At first, they were stealing from the Frenchmen…their personal property, sir.”

“Common enough though illegal under those circumstances. And this is what led to you disobeying Captain Pole’s orders to stand off, did it? The orders of your superior officer, sir?” the admiral asked brusquely.

“No, sir. I disobeyed him because his crew began…they were raping the women aboard, sir, and Captain Pole was taking no action to stop it,” Jon finished angrily.

“The French women,” the secretary stated in the admiral’s ear. It was not a question and his tone made it obvious that he did not care.

“Regardless of their nationality, sir, they were…” Jon began. He had mistakenly thought this matter from well over two years ago had been dropped when Captain Pole sailed off to the far side of the world soon afterwards. _Apparently not._

“Yes, young man…a rotten, disgraceful business. The horrors of war and all,” the admiral said with contemptible complacency. “And Captain Pole ordered you to return to your ship, did he not?”

“He did, sir.”

“And you refused?”

“I did, sir.”

“Captain Pole has returned from Valparaiso and lodged a complaint against you over this matter but the man is clearly a fool to pursue this at all. It will only damage his own reputation and, while you did disobey his orders, it would lead to no more than a mere reprimand for you. Martin, note down that having reviewed the evidence the Admiralty finds no reason to investigate this matter further.”

“Yes, sir,” the secretary said scratching away with his quill.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but what of the crimes committed by Captain Pole’s men?” Jon asked.

“Well, all things considered…I’d say the stolen property is long since forgotten.”

“And the rapes? Do you imagine those forgotten, too…sir?”

“Mr. Snow, have a care. The principal offenders paid for their crime with their lives. We are letting the matter drop…all of it. With the peace, it is best to forget the unpleasantness of the past.”

Jon had not forgotten it though. He remembered the morning all too well. The _Alayne_ had been sailing in company with _Tartar_ for three days with orders to capture enemy merchantmen and privateersmen. The French captain had said he was a mere fisherman turned smuggler with a cargo of brandy he was carrying to Britain. He offered it to them both if they would let him go.

Smugglers and fishermen were small fry that the Navy usually ignored. It was beneficial to do so as sometimes the British would trade with the fishermen and feast on lobster, mussels and fresh fish in exchange for a bit of gold or supplies. And sometimes, it was a good way to share news, not necessarily intelligence, although that was sometimes the case with captains that were not particularly enamored of the French government, but just news in general. These friendly exchanges between the nations were common enough and it gave Jon hope that a lasting peace could occur between them in time.

Jon would’ve let the Frenchman go if it’d been up to him that morning. But, Jon was not the superior officer. Captain Pole, a post captain of two years, was the one in charge and he said no.

There had been some women aboard, likely the captain or his crew’s kin. As supposed gentlemen, it was the officers’ responsibility to see that they were not mistreated. But, Pole had made no effort to protect the women. Jon had been told the Alaynes would receive their share of the prize but that they were not needed to see the capture to port. Some of Pole’s men had managed to find the brandy before it was secured while the captains were talking. The inebriated men had begun stealing before Jon had even left the ship. Jon heard the women’s terrified cries across the water before his boat reached _Alayne_. He had ordered Edd to turn around so that he could protest and put a stop to the madness. Captain Pole had told him he would handle it, to mind his own business and return to his ship. But the captain had only stood there instead of doing anything and Jon had shoved past him with Edd and Gendry at his heels to fight his own countrymen if need be.

He’d entered the cabin from where the screams and crying were coming and found two women being raped while a third was ferociously fighting with a marlin spike and everything she had against three men. He drew his sword and ran all three of them through as Edd and Gendry finished the three rapists too caught up in their violent act to realize their danger. Four more of Pole’s men had been standing in the cabin watching and no doubt ready to participate but they fled at Jon’s bellowed order. Edd left the room at once in clear agitation when Jon told him to fetch Clegane and Gendry could only stare at the floor, mortified by the events.

So, it fell to Jon to try and coax the weeping women to come with him with the assurance that they would not be harmed further. He did not blame them for the mistrust he saw in their eyes. But the fighter, a redhead that reminded him of his own spirited wife in a way, had stood ramrod straight and asked him his name in French.

“Je suis le commandant Jon Snow, a ̀votre service, mademoiselle,” he had responded and she’d curtsied and thanked him for his aid.

Ygritte was her name and for the day she sailed aboard _Alayne_ she had followed him about and talked to him of her family and her plan to find work in England. She was quite a talker and much of her rapid French was beyond Jon’s comprehension of that language while her halting English was difficult to understand at times as well. But from what he had gathered, she was close to him in age and of modest birth. He suspected she felt safer being near him and he did not wish to cause her any additional distress by avoiding her.

When they’d reached England, she’d come to say good-bye and thanked him again. Jon’s experience with women was extremely limited beyond his wife but he got the impression that Ygritte wanted him to say something more than his simple, one-word responses. She’d moved closer to him, too close in truth, and she had reached for his hand. He’d bowed at once and begged her pardon pleading urgent business and then fled into the tops to escape like a boy rather than allow her to go further and create an uncomfortable scene for them both when he refused her advances.

 

An hour later, Jon left Whitehall with a grimace. Aggravation from revisiting the unpleasant day and aggravation with admirals in general plagued him. Peace had been declared for little over a month and already the fools in charge had effectively castrated a third of the nation’s fleet, laying the best ships up in ordinary and sending others to the breaker’s yard. Dockyard reforms were the hue and cry of the day with St. Vincent in charge. Jon admired the man as a fighting admiral but his personality could be off-putting to say the least and he wondered if he was the best choice to be First Lord. _Do they really imagine that Boney is done with this war? He’s merely regrouping and strategizing,_ _reinforcing his defenses, and licking any wounds before they reengage_. Jon shook his head at the decisions being made with regards to his beloved service and walked on.

“Jon Snow!” a voice rang out from the steps he’d just thundered down. He turned to find Dr. Davos Seaworth following him.

“Dr. Seaworth,” he said with pleasure. “How are you, sir? And how is Captain Mormont?”

“I am keeping well, young man, as is Jeor. He’s to hoist his flag soon, you know.” Jon smiled to think of his captain being promoted to admiral at last and asked the doctor to convey his congratulations. “How are your lovely wife and daughter?” the doctor asked next.

“They are well. Sansa is here in London with me but our daughter is at home in Petersfield.”

He started to ask what brought the doctor to Whitehall as there would be little reason for a common naval surgeon to report unless he was desperate for a ship which Davos certainly was not having private means of his own to live upon. But Davos was no common surgeon being a physician in the first place and an active intelligence agent on behalf of the Service in the second. So, his question as to why the doctor was there died on his tongue and the two men, having concluded their business with their betters, agreed to walk along together towards the park.

“Have you spoken with your father-in-law recently, Jon?” Davos asked after they’d finished asking about old shipmates and updating one another on their journeys.

“No, I’ve not seen Ned in over a year now. I was at sea ten months and only set foot in England again around a fortnight ago.”

“Well…” Davos started to say and stroked his beard looking thoughtful. Jon wished to know what would follow that ‘well’ but he knew better than to push. Davos shared information with Jon more willingly than he did with most other breathing men but years of intelligence work had ingrained a high degree of caution about uttering anything without forethought. “I’ve been looking into a certain matter for the Admiralty and it so happens that it coincides with an interest of yours and your father-in-law’s.”

“Yes?” Jon prompted as neutrally as he could.

“Petyr Baelish is in Paris as you know. He’s been there since he fled this country after attempting to steal from the Starks and you and murdering his wife…and selling secrets to the enemy. He made friends in the First Republic but now that the First Consulate has firmly taken over some of his friends have found themselves on the wrong side of the guillotine. It appears he is seeking new friends. I hear he’s not having much success at that.”

“Well…I can’t say I’m sorry to hear it,” Jon said trying to master the spurt of temper that flared at the mere mention of the man’s name. “I didn’t know you and Sir Eddard knew one another that well.”

“Jeor and Sir Eddard are very close. Jeor is my particular friend and his interests are my interests.”

“I see. But I can’t say that any of this matters to me here. If I could sail to Paris and hunt the man down I would but…pray, never breathe a word of that to Sansa.”

“No,” Davos chuckled. “I’m quite certain your wife doesn’t want you taking such an unnecessary risk. And there are plenty of people here who are willing to do so that are more qualified for such tasks, if you’ll forgive me.”

“Your agents?” he asked.

“Some. Some belong to other organizations. I merely wanted you and Sir Eddard to know that the noose may be tightening before long around Baelish’s throat.”

“That would be very reassuring to hear,” Jon said, “except for one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“When the noose begins to tighten is precisely when a man like Baelish becomes even more dangerous.”

“Very true,” Davos agreed. He gave him an appraising look and observed, “You’ve grown a lot from the boy you were when we first met.”

“Well, I should hope I’ve grown some since I was fifteen,” Jon laughed.

“You’ve matured naturally,” Davos said. “You were a very bright boy but you are a grown man now, an intelligent, experienced officer and a natural leader of men. It’s been noted by others. Perhaps the war to come will see you made post at last.”

“The war to come? Do you mean to tell me that there will be another war, Dr. Seaworth?” Jon asked sarcastically. “Surely not for we have ships to break up, officers to fling on the beach and seamen to let sail off with the merchant service.”

“Oh, don’t be too hard on them, Jon. They’re a parcel of fools in Whitehall at times but most of them have our country’s best interests at heart and you’ll be surprised how quickly we can mobilize when necessary. Look at the last time. Ah…but you were a mere boy then and perhaps don’t remember,” he winked.

“Touché, doctor.”

 

* * *

 

 

He grunted loudly with his completion and held her to him as they both trembled with the pulsing after quakes of release. He cupped her face and kissed her tenderly and thanked God that he was here with her. They had laid idly abed that morning until he could not resist having her once more. _I will never be able to resist having her once more_.

He knew she would have to rise soon for she’d already spoken of the morning calls Jeyne had planned for them to make. Theon had asked Jon to go riding with him this afternoon. _Another busy day doing things apart when I only wish to be with her._

“Can’t we just stay here and pretend that life outside this room does not exist?” he said, kissing her shoulder before making his way to her neck after he’d rolled off her and to his side.

“I should like that,” Sansa answered with a giggle as he hit that ticklish spot behind her ear. “But we know others are expecting our company today.”

“Well, when we return home in a couple of days, I’m going to insist that we spend at least half a day like this.”

“About that, Jon,” Sansa said with a suddenly tense sort of tone. “I’ve been thinking that if you should wish to go to Bath, it might be more convenient in a way to just go ahead and go from here rather than…”

“Are you serious?” he asked, rising from the bed. “You wish to discuss Bath now?” He was cross at once. _Why must she bring this up again?_ He jerked on his breeches without a backwards glance and rang for the servant to bring water so that he could shave.

Sansa sat mutely on the bed watching him shave. He was seething with hurt feelings and she seemed to be as well though he couldn’t comprehend why. _I’m not trying to send_ you _away!_ At last, she finally spoke again.

“It was just a suggestion, Jon.”

“A suggestion that I go to Bath straight from London? Sansa…are you so eager to see the back of me?”

“No! I merely thought you could meet with your aunt and we could...”

“No, I’m not going. I made no promises to go if you will recall.”

“Jon…”

“No, Sansa. I want to go home to our daughter. I don’t want to go to Bath now. Gabriel’s making inquiries…”

“Spying on this family that she works for, you mean.”

“He’s making discreet inquiries. Call it what you like. It’s prudent to know something of her before I rush off, isn’t it? Why are you so desperate to send me away? Do you wish to be rid of me already?” His voice broke and he choked out the last. “Would you prefer I stay here when you return home?”

He hated the hurt look on her face but knew his own face mirrored it at present. It was a fear of his. They had been separated for a good deal of their marriage…their courtship, too. _What if she doesn’t want me around? Is this why she’s so concerned over the plight of some relative I don’t even know? We married in haste. Does she regret it now? She has_ _Sophie and her family and her school. Am I still wanted outside of our bed?_

“Of course not! How can you say such a thing?” she cried as her eyes filled with tears. “I want you at home with me and Sophie! That’s all I ever want! I feared that you would be the one who…I thought you might regret being home,” she finished with a whisper.

“Sansa…there’s nowhere I’d rather be than by your side, sweetheart,” he said as he walked back over to the bed and sat down on the edge, eyes on the bedside table for he feared drowning in her blue eyes at present.

“I want to be where you are, wherever that may be, Jon. And, I just thought that…maybe we could see to this matter with your aunt. I hoped that if we could put it behind us we might be able to go home and enjoy our daughter and our life together…for however long you remain ashore. I don’t want you to go away…not ever.”

Jon looked back at her and smiled then. She was divine. She was still naked in the bed. She’d pulled the sheet up to her chest but not completely covered her breasts. Her hair was down and hung about her shoulders in soft waves of auburn. Her skin was still flushed from their lovemaking.

“All I want, my darling girl, is to be with you. Do you imagine I prefer any ship to you?”

“Perhaps at times,” she confessed and hung her head.

He groaned inwardly for he knew he was in shoal waters here with precious little water under the keel. He loved her with all his heart and soul but he did love the sea and the service…not matter how it vexed him at times. _How am I to reconcile the two? Perhaps I can’t. But I will always choose her over the other_.

“Sansa, I will not lie and say I care nothing for the Navy or the sea.”

“I would never expect you to.”

“But you are my life and my love and you and Sophie are more important to me than anything else in this world, even something I love so very dearly as I love the service. I confess I’m having a difficult time adjusting to being ashore but that is not your fault. I love being with you. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” she said with a gentle smile. “I am sorry if you are having difficulties. Being parted so much of the time has not helped, I imagine. I thought you preferred Gabriel’s company to mine.”

“I love your brother but never think for a second I prefer anyone’s company to yours.”

“I’m sorry, Jon. I suppose I’ve not helped by pushing you on the matter with your aunt. But I don’t want you to feel like I’m trying to send you away. In fact, I had thought that perhaps I could travel with you to Bath.”

“You’d travel there with me?” he asked.

“Yes, of course. I thought it might be something we could do together. Actually, Theon suggested it for I felt bound to our home and Sophie and the school but they could manage without me for a little while. I want to support you in this if I may. And on a more selfish note, I thought perhaps it could be a…well, a holiday of sorts for just the two of us. We’ve not really had that. When we married in Spain we did have time alone but my father and Arya and the boys were there, too. But in Bath, it could be just you and I.”

“When we’re not visiting Mademoiselle Targaryen, you mean?”

“Well, yes. I didn’t think you planned to spend all of your time with your aunt, did you?”

“Not if I can have you all to myself,” he said pulling her into his arms now. He kissed her brow and said, “Alright, sweetheart, I cannot tell you no. We will go to Bath…together. But first, we will return home for a week at least. I can’t have Sophie forgetting her Papa again already. Agreed?”

“Agreed,” she said with the brilliant smile that made his heart melt as always.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Snows have a few days at home and then journey to Bath to meet Jon's aunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am slow to get back around to this one. Thank you, mynameisnoneya, for giving me encouragement (and begging me...lol) to keep writing this.
> 
> There's a moment in this straight out of Pride and Prejudice because I couldn't help but think of Jane Austen as I wrote about them in Bath :)

The pair sat contentedly together in the parlour stitching and mending on a sunny morning in early May. Though Sansa’s back ached and she felt cross when she made a mistake in her stitching, her company was quite amusing in his way.

“And so Mr. Clegane has married?” she said in response to her companion’s gossip. “I am glad for him though he can be so formidable at times. Aboard _Queenscrown_ and _Francine_ , I positively trembled when he raised his voice in anger and none of that was ever directed at me. I hope he will mind his tongue and speak sweetly to his wife.”

“I’d be more concerned for him as he’s likely to be on the receiving end of any rebukes or tongue lashings,” Edd said dryly. “From what I seen of the new Mrs. Clegane in Portsmouth, she seems more than capable of handing out tongue lashings…or the regular sort…all on her own though she’s a jolly enough girl most of the time. You shoulda seen him quake when we brought him back from celebrating his upcoming nuptials and him three sheets to the wind and her standing in the doorway of the inn asking was he ever gonna be sober in time for the parson in the morning followed by a babble of French that none of us understood yet we all stood their meek as whipped dogs with our heads bowed.” Edd laughed to himself and continued, “She’ll keep the old grouch in line and happy, too, I’d say all the same though.”

Sansa couldn't help her giggles at the thought of any woman that could make the enormous and taciturn bosun quake. Edd turned back to his favorite topic soon enough though…complaining about Jon’s lack of concern for his clothing.

“Which he is always forgetting to hang up, mind you, though I tell him a dozen times a day at least,” Edd continued while Sansa smiled and continued her stitching. “And then there’s his scraper. ‘Keep it on your head, sir, for the love of God,’ I says. Does he listen to Old Edd? No, he does not. Always sitting on it by mistake or setting it down where any grass-combing lubber might put their grubby hands on it…or losing it, God love us.”

 _Oh, Edd…you’d make a fine wife if nagging were the only requirement. I suppose I needn’t worry about Jon eating enough or wearing his tarpaulin when it rains_. Edd worked at his pile of mending but was apparently ruminating over what he’d just said.

“Still…your husband is a very fine officer to serve under, ma’am. I don’t mean to sound as though I’m…”

“Of course, Edd. I understand you completely.”

“I just wouldn’t want the Captain to think I’m not…”

“I will never repeat what you share with me in confidence,” Sansa said solemnly. “I believe we both have the Captain’s best interests at heart, do we not?”

“Aye, we do, ma’am,” he said with a sweet smile and bent back to his task as Sansa continued her own.

Edd had arrived the day they had returned from London and Robb had come home the following day. Sansa was overjoyed to see her older brother though between his wife and daughter, Sansa had not wanted to beg for too much of his attention just yet.

And Gendry Waters had arrived a few days later. It was amusing to see Arya try and maintain a lady-like indifference towards poor Mr. Waters’ obviously besotted looks and then grow vexed when he would be taken up with Jon discussing something of ships or past missions. She knew they would work it out well enough on their own in time though.

However, poor Gendry had not known that in addition to Jon, Arya’s two older brothers would be present and he grew quite flustered around them both at first. He soon came to realize that Gabriel was on his side but Robb had been unaware of any burgeoning attachment between the two.

So, when he spied them alone together in the hall and holding hands last night after supper, he’d shown his overprotective nature…in typical Robb fashion. It was endearing or insufferable depending upon your point of view.

Arya had shrieked at Robb to mind his own bloody business while Mr. Waters had begged pardon and slunk off. Gabriel was no help and pretended to be as shocked as Robb at this development. Jon had gone after his young master’s mate and guest to console and reassure him that his brother-in-law would not in fact be throwing Gendry out of the house as it was not even _his_ house and certainly would not be calling him out either.

Thankfully, Talisa was more than equal to the task of making Robb see the error of his ways. Her rapid and voluble Italian rang throughout the drawing room as Robb’s head bowed lower and lower before he finally sought out Mr. Waters and made his apologies.

Sansa felt guilty as she had not come to her sister’s aid or Gendry’s as whole-heartedly as she should for she had been sunk in a gloom of her own. As Edd nattered on about the service and the men aboard _Alayne_ , things that Jon had already shared, Sansa’s mind wandered back to what had been troubling her last night.

Her monthly courses had arrived the day before and she was surprised at how keenly disappointed she had been. It was silly of course. No matter how many times she and Jon were intimate, it did not guarantee a child would necessarily result. But being as she had become pregnant with Sophie during the two weeks they shared in Spain when they married, she had hoped that it would be sooner rather than later.

At table last night before Gendry and Arya were discovered by Robb in the hall, the men had discussed the likelihood of war breaking back out and a return to arms by next year. They became more animated and their talk more heated, nearly heady as it continued though perhaps the wine was to blame in some part. Arya joined their discussion with a bellicose eagerness to engage Napoleon over the dinner table in conversation if nothing else.

But Sansa and Talisa kept their silence and eyed one another apprehensively.

 _Hang their bloody war and their enthusiasm for it. Are the three of them so eager to be off fighting again? And Gabriel and Sam are no better despite no longer being in the Army or Navy. It’s no more than Talisa and I should expect being married to martial men, I suppose_ , Sansa had thought bitterly.

Jon was a sharp man though and knew his wife was displeased when he came to their room later. “I’m sorry for that, sweetheart. I did not mean to get carried away talking about…”

“It’s quite alright,” she’d said courteously, an icy sort of courtesy though.

“No, it’s not. You’re angry and I wish to make amends,” he’d said coming close and intending to put his arms around her.

“It’s perfectly natural to discuss your profession at table amongst family. And my courses arrived this afternoon before you get any ideas,” she said coolly, pulling away and feeling the sting of tears in her eyes.

She wanted to tell him she understood his interest in their country’s relations with France and the politics involved in this peace. She shared his interest and his belief that this peace would not be lasting. But she also wanted to stamp her foot and scream at him. She wanted to cry and fall into his arms. She hated the way her emotions overtook everything at this time but would likely claw his eyes out if he so much as suggested such a thing.

“Oh,” he said uncomfortably, looking perfectly wretched. Jon had been a married man for years now but he’d spent hardly any time around women in his profession and very little time since becoming a man in domestic situations. And though they knew one another intimately, he was clearly at a loss as to what to make of her coldness or how to handle this matter. “I…I’ll leave you be if you prefer. I’m sorry…”

“Jon,” she said with a small smile. She could not let him twist like this for long. “I didn’t wish to hear about the war tonight but you didn’t do anything wrong. Partly, I do not wish to be parted from you.”

“I know and I don’t wish to be parted from you either.”

“But the real reason I was upset was…” Sansa paused and ran her hands along her slender waist. “I want another child, Jon. I want to have another baby and I’m hoping that perhaps you may be here this time…for the birth. And talk of the war made me fearful…do you really think it’ll be so short? This peace?”

“I don’t know but I’m so sorry. And, I want that, too, my darling girl. More children, I mean. I want to give Sophie a sister and a brother, God willing. As many children as you want. And I want to be home with you when they are born and to stay home and enjoy them, to watch them grow.” He ducked his head and said, “So, you were most upset that…your…umm…”

“That my menses came…yes.” _There, I said it. Now, why do I cry?_ she thought as the tears came hard and fast.

“Sansa, sweetheart,” Jon cooed as he took her in his arms. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry your husband is an oaf to chatter on about war and cause you any grief.”

“You weren’t alone in that. And Robb started that hare anyway.”

“Still, I could’ve diverted the conversation to something more amiable. And as for the other part, I am sorry but…” Sansa wiped her eyes and looked at him with a smile as his own smile turned quite wicked and he rumbled in her ear, “I will happily continue trying to get you with child every day, every hour and anytime or place that you like.”

Sansa drew herself back to the present with a smile at the memory. _Yes, the trying is quite enjoyable and I will not fret so over the outcome just now_.

Therefore, it was with genuine delight that she greeted her husband when he entered her parlour shortly thereafter where she and Edd had been busily discussing Jon’s less than tidy habits when it came to keeping up his clothes and cabin.

“Thick as thieves again, I see. Is this a shot-rolling ship already? I believe I smell a whiff of mutiny in the air,” Jon said with a glint in his eye as he eyed the pair of them.

Edd looked shocked…and guilty. But Sansa laughed at him and said, “Dear husband, I believe you grow quite paranoid with age. Edd and I have been far too busy with our sewing to hatch any mutinies this morning.”

“And are you too busy for our picnic now, my wife? Or too tired, my darling?” he then asked with a solicitous glance at her body.

Sansa blushed at the implication in Edd’s presence but replied, “No, I am tired of sitting, I find. Is Sophie ready?”

“Yes, we have been packing our basket this past half hour and she is eager to be off. She awaits us near the stables.”

In two days, they were to leave for Bath and wanted to spend as much time with their daughter as possible before their journey that was expected to last a fortnight or more. Jon and Sophie had come up with this picnic idea at breakfast and mentioned it to Sansa.

Since their return from London, Sophie had gone from Sansa’s shadow much of the time to seeking nothing but her father’s company. She felt no jealousy over that though. He had had so little time with their daughter. Sansa was just glad that Sophie had not only warmed to Jon but was now quite enamored of him just as Sansa had been as a girl for her own father.

Apparently, the Captain, as Sophie often called him same as the seamen of the house, had won a great battle for his little lady, as he called her, when he had convinced Sansa that Sophie be permitted to ride on the back of Jon’s horse for this picnic. Sansa rarely let their daughter ride even when Gabriel begged to indulge her. But Jon was her father and Sansa would not deny the two of them. For herself, Sansa preferred to take a cart or carriage when they went anywhere their feet could not carry them. She had suggested they picnic in the gardens. But Jon and their daughter said it was to be an adventure and the gardens were not far enough to be considered such. They insisted on riding to the brook in the woods.

“Go faster, Papa!” Sophie kept shouting but Jon would not allow his stallion to outpace Sansa’s mare.

“We mustn’t leave Mama behind,” Jon said with a smile at his wife.

“Mama knows the way, sir,” the child argued. “I want to go faster, like when you took me riding yesterday!”

 _He is too wise for that now at least_ , Sansa thought as she started to laugh while Jon cast anxious glances her way and attempted to distracted their daughter with talk of flowers, deer and honey buzzards he had seen when he and her Uncle Gabriel last passed this way. _No doubt he wishes to keep her from revealing anymore of their secret outings as well_.

When they reached the wood by the brook, they waited for Sansa to choose an appropriate spot. Once she selected a reasonable bit of dry ground, the only one in sight regardless, Sophie spoke again.

“That’s just where I suggested to the Captain yester-“ Sophie began before Jon clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Little children aren’t very good at keeping secrets, my love,” she teased as Jon tied up the horses and retrieved the basket they had packed.

“I’m learning that,” he said with a sheepish grin but laughed when he saw he was not in any trouble.

He and Sophie arranged the blanket and laid out the spread of food and sweets they had packed for Sansa’s inspection next. _Far too many sweets…naturally_.

All the same, Sansa enjoyed their attentions as they sought to entertain her and pamper her. After the meal was done, Sophie clumsily braided her mother’s hair with as much care and precision as a girl her age could manage. She then asked her mother to do the same with hers. Sophie’s hair was a riot of curls like her father’s though longer but Sansa was patient and skilled and soon had it swept back in a braid which pleased her daughter.

Once Sophie’s hair was done, Sansa looked over at her husband lying on the blanket and apparently close to nodding off. _Sailors can sleep anywhere…and at the drop of a hat_. She whispered in her daughter’s ear and the elfin face lit up at this idea. Sophie giggled and agreed at once.

“Papa! Mama and I want to braid your hair now!” One eye opened and his lips twitched before he closed the eye and pretended to snore. “He’s awake, Mama! He is only pretending.”

“Come now, Papa. I know you cannot refuse our darling daughter anything.”

And of course, he submitted to their attentions and laughed at their efforts to braid his hair before he started chasing Sophie along the water’s edge to make her give up at last. The little girl was collecting flowers to put in everyone’s hair when Jon said down beside his wife again.

“I will miss her while we are away,” he said.

“I will as well. A fortnight at least but hopefully no longer.”

“Yes…let it be so, my love.”

 

* * *

 

 

A week later, Sansa sat by his side in the drawing room at the Charlton’s impressive home in Queen Square, Bath. When the coach had pulled up to the residence, Jon had to repress the childish urge to tell the driver to keep going.

He had spent the past few minutes being silent, letting Sansa handle making polite talk as she was so adept at doing. He was quiet and observed their hostess and his aunt.

Mrs. Charlton was a heavy-set and talkative woman approaching her middle years and seemed disinclined to leave her governess alone with them. Jon suspected it was more that she was a busy body that wished to know more of their connection with the young lady in question.

She dressed fashionably to Jon’s eyes but it seemed a bit much, as though she tried too hard. Too many frills and fripperies that looked silly on a woman her age and the jewelry, which she was no doubt proud of, would’ve been bordering on ostentatious at a ball not to mention a morning call. _She’d be far handsomer with less jewels and feathers. Perhaps_ _lovely, dark green gown, one to match her eyes_.

He looked over at his wife in her blue morning dress that matched her own beautiful blue eyes. The cool and calming blue complimented her fiery red hair very well. Her hair was pulled up of course and mostly concealed by Sansa’s hat but Jon was thinking of it as it had been earlier in the morning, loose and hanging about her shoulders as she sat naked in the bed at their inn before he…

“Wouldn’t you agree this rain has been quite shocking, Captain?” Mrs. Charlton asked then.

“The rain? Oh, yes…the rain! Yes, it has…well, rain in spring in England. Who would’ve thought it?”

Sansa smirked at him and sent him a silent message to behave. She made a meaningful glance at Daenerys and he knew what she expected.

Jon sighed and gave her an imperceptible nod. “And how long have you lived in Bath, Mademoiselle?” he asked. _See, Sansa. I have spoken to her_.

“Six years, Monsieur,” his aunt said quietly before allowing her employer to dominate the conversation once more.

Unlike Mrs. Charlton, his aunt was dressed quite plainly, as to be expected in her reduced circumstances and modest station. She was beautiful nonetheless and Jon was surprised there weren’t at least some suitable suitors about to ask for her hand. But there was a strangeness to her beauty that did not appeal to Jon. He wondered if his father had had the same silver hair and purple eyes and wondered too if it was this that drew his mother’s eye when she was but fifteen. His blood boiled in impotent fury at the thought of her disgrace the next instant and he looked quickly down at his teacup to hide his grimace.

 _It is not this woman’s fault_.

The teacup rattled in his hand all the same and he felt Sansa reach over and place a loving hand on his forearm. “If you are done with that, Mr. Snow,” she said as she took the cup away and placed it beside her on the table beside them.

Her touch was what he needed now. He had no right to dislike Mademoiselle Targaryen but the thought of her brother and his treatment of Jon’s mother still made him angry.

_I wish I could speak to her directly about this matter with her brother and the unwanted marriage like I would with another officer in the Service instead of sitting here like this chatting about rain and other nonsense.  Seems as though things could be decided far more expeditiously that way...and then we could go home._

He had always hated this sort of thing. He had always been quite abysmal at sipping tea and making conversation in drawing rooms with people he did not know. He’d been somewhat awkward and shy as a boy. And, even in his own drawing room, and he _was_ coming to see it as his more and more, he felt out of place with this polite sort of socializing that could seem very false at times.

He’d suffered very little of it being at sea so often from the age of fifteen but had sat on his backside drinking tea more in the past month that he had for five years at least.

 _Would there be coffee in that pot at all, I wonder?_ thought Jon who had never cared much for tea. He eyed the pot in question on a tray near the tea caddy as the lady of the house droned on and on about how marvelous Mademoiselle was with her children and how they adored her. _There’s brandy in that decanter at least, I’d wager_.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Captain Snow?” his hostess prompted just then.

Jon cleared his throat and scrambled to latch on to what exactly had been said in the past few seconds.

Again, he felt Sansa’s hand on his arm and she spoke, “Certainly, Mrs. Charlton. We should love to hear Mademoiselle play and sing…if she should not mind.”

Daenerys looked like she’d prefer to swallow her own tongue rather than play for them. This whole time she’d sat meekly by Mrs. Charlton sipping her tea and casting inquisitive glances his way and only speaking when spoken to. Her eyes sought Sansa’s just as often and Sansa met her glances with open and kind smiles in return. Jon had struggled to do the same.

_What does she truly want of me? And what am I willing to do for her? Why did she even want me to come if she’s only going to sit there?_

“I will play, Madame, but please don’t make me sing,” his aunt replied.

“Sansa sings beautifully,” he said then.

“Mr. Snow,” Sansa said under her breath, “I’m certain we’d both rather hear…”

“Well, you _do_ sing beautifully,” he argued. “Perhaps if Mademoiselle Targaryen would be willing to play, you could sing for us, sweet-…Mrs. Snow.”

_Mrs. Snow. Mrs. Snow…why must I call my own wife Mrs. Snow in these people’s presence? I was sucking on her teats two hours ago but here she must be Mrs. Snow to me. This is bloody ridiculous. It’s raining and I only wish to return to our bed at the inn and stay there all day. It’s not so much to ask, is it?_

His wicked thought made him smile to himself…until he caught Sansa sharp eye on him. She was not pleased. Perhaps she feared taking the attention away from the unmarried lady but it wasn’t as though there were any suitors about to impress. And Jon wanted to hear Sansa sing anyway.

“Oh, that’d be delightful if you would sing, Mrs. Snow! I would adore an entertainment on such a dreary day! Mr. Charlton will be sorry he missed this.”

Sansa rose and crossed to Daenerys and the two younger women engaged in a whispered conversation in French, much to Mrs. Charlton’s dismay. They moved to the piano forte and gave each other encouraging smiles. Daenerys fingers did not falter as they moved across the keys. Her playing was quite lovely. A gentle smile lit her features as she played and smiled at him. He smiled in return but then turned his eyes to his wife.

Sansa’s voice raised in song had long been one of his favorite things. He watched her eyes shine with emotion at the sad love song she sang first. She kept her eyes on him and it was hard for Jon to remember others were in the room with him at times like this. He was as smitten now as he was when he had first heard her sing the night they met when he was but eighteen. More so. She sang two more songs while Daenerys played and Jon would've asked her to sing longer had they been at their own home.

The visit was winding to a close and Mrs. Charlton remained with them. Jon began to doubt any opportunity to speak privately would appear but Sansa was ready as ever to deal with that.

“Mademoiselle, if Mrs. Charlton would not mind, Jon and I would love to have you dine with us at our inn…say for dinner tomorrow? We could come collect you in our coach.”

Daenerys murmured her assent and thanks and agreed to dine with them. That accomplished, Jon saw no further reason to linger and said he would go and see to the coach being brought round for them and stepped into the hall in search of a servant’s help. None were in sight and he felt strange searching through a stranger’s house for one. _Aboard, I could just hail for one_.

He had nearly given up when a maid appeared. Her hair was in a tidy bun beneath a cap but a tendril of red hair had escaped and she gasped when she saw him. A rapid tide of French reached his ears but was spoken far too quickly for him to catch every word.

“I beg your pardon, Mademoiselle,” he said with a civil though confused smile.

“I knew you would come,” the young lady said in English…and loudly. Jon heard the drawing room door open from behind him but the woman only had eyes for him. “I feared I wouldn’t get to see you. I have waited so long…” she trailed off just before she flung herself into his arms. Jon was too shocked to do more than stare for a moment. “I knew you would come and help, Capitaine.”

“Ygritte,” he said in surprise as recognition dawned at last.

He turned to move away from Ygritte at once but staring at them both from the doorway of the drawing room with shocked expressions stood Mrs. Charlton, his aunt…and Sansa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Jon got caught in what appeared to be a compromising position. But hang in there because Sansa is sensible and it will be resolved soon enough.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa learns how Jon knows Ygritte. They spend time getting to know his aunt better and Jon meets his Uncle Viserys.

“Sansa…” he began again meekly from the other side of the coach.

She shook her head violently and hissed between clenched teeth, “Not here. Not now.”

She was humiliated and furious. Jon had been trying to explain himself for the past ten minutes but she would have none of it. Sansa’s rational mind knew it quite likely that there was a perfectly acceptable and decent explanation for what she had just witnessed.

 _Try explaining that to my heart. Try explaining that to my pride_ , she thought angrily remembering the other woman in her husband’s arms.

Her mind flitted from that unhappy image to others, carnal images of Jon in bed with another woman. And, all while everything she’d ever heard of seamen and their inability to remain monogamous chanted in her head. _All seamen are bachelors once they sink the land_ , she’d overheard an admiral say once at a levee.

_Not Jon. He would never…_

_How would you even know?_

She shook with wrath and hurt feelings and didn’t know if she was more vexed with him for allowing a suspicion of infidelity to appear so boldly before her or at herself for believing him capable of such a thing.

Seeing them in what appeared to be an embrace was bad enough but the shocked and then condescending expression on Mrs. Charlton’s face, the flushed, anxious look on his aunt’s, the babble of French endearments from the whore…

 _Young woman, Sansa. You know nothing of her character. I know she called my husband her beloved hero_.

But while she was busy roasting on a spit of self-torment and uncertainty, Jon was apparently becoming incensed at some perceived injustice.

“Where should we discuss it then, my wife? At the Inn? Should you prefer to hold this discussion there?” Jon asked sharply.

She could tell he was growing frustrated from sitting there silently the past ten minutes as every attempt he made to talk had been instantly squashed. Her husband was a passionate man, no longer used to sitting quietly and waiting for permission to speak. Soon, his own ire would be raised and she knew he would not bite his tongue much longer.

 _Our room at the inn. Everyone in the place will hear us_.

“Fine,” she said begrudgingly. “Explain it to me if you wish but keep your voice down.”

His eyes softened and he immediately launched into how he had met the young woman. He shared more than Sansa suspected he normally would’ve regarding the circumstances of their meeting and the unpleasantness aboard the French prize including the behaviour of the Tartars and resulting violence.

“I admired Ygritte’s spirit, fighting the seamen on her own, you understand. But I swear to you, Sansa, I have never looked at another woman in a desirous or lecherous manner since first I met you. I thought she must be frightened aboard being surrounded by English seamen considering what had happened and I allowed her to remain at my side on deck perhaps more than I would’ve ordinarily done with a female passenger.” He dropped his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. “You know my French is not what it could be and she spoke mostly in that language and so rapidly that I often just nodded or hummed my agreement when I honestly wasn’t all that certain what she was saying, do you see?” Sansa could not help but laugh softly at that and he continued, “But as soon as I became aware that Ygritte seemed to have developed a tendre for me, I religiously avoided her company until we had docked.”

“And so her being in the Charltons employ was a completely random turn of events?”

“I suspect not,” he said and Sansa frowned. “No, I don’t mean…Christ, Sansa. I didn’t know she was there. What I mean is that perhaps she is the reason Daenerys chose to write to me. If they both work there together perhaps they stumbled upon the fact that I am her nephew and Ygritte had met me.” Sansa considered that possibility as Jon forged on, “I should like to remind you at this time that I did not wish to come here in the first place. I had no idea Ygritte would be here and had I known, I might have redoubled my reasons for not coming…after I told you about her of course.”

“Why did you never tell me of the incident involving her?” Sansa asked.

“Because, my darling…there are enough atrocities committed in times of war and I should prefer to shield you from such things when I can.”

“Like aboard the _Francine_?” she asked, giving him a gentle reminder of when she had been threatened with rape and murder by men under his own command.

“Yes,” he said sadly. “We have been parted so often during our courtship and marriage I’d rather not speak of the more unpleasant…the horrors I’ve seen when I’m in your company. And partly I did not tell you because I had already forgotten her by the time I joined you again several months later.”

“I’m not made of glass, Jon.”

“I know. I know you’re not. Is it objectionable though that I should wish to not speak of such things?”

“No. I understand your thinking. No doubt you prefer not to dwell on such things either.”

“I don’t…especially not when I am with you.”

“And no one else has turned your head in all this time?”

“No. No one,” he answered.

“I’m sorry I did not listen right away,” she said grasping his hand now. He squeezed her hand in return and gently caressed the back of her gloved hand. He opened his mouth to speak but she continued, “So, now what?”

“Well, as for Mrs. Charlton’s maid, there’s nothing to do. I suppose I could say something to my aunt if necessary but whatever the young lady’s hopes were regarding myself, she will soon discover I am very much a married man. And as for Daenerys, I believe we may make more progress with her and what she wants when we are alone with her for five minutes than we did in an hour today.”

“True,” Sansa said with a smile. “Mrs. Charlton was rather attentive.”

“Aggressively attentive,” he laughed. The smile fled though and he took her hand again. “Sansa? Am I forgiven then?”

“There’s nothing to forgive. I overreacted. It appeared far worse than it was.”

“Truly, it could not have appeared much worse in your eyes, I suppose.”

“I was embarrassed…in front of your aunt and Mrs. Charlton.”

“Of course. I was embarrassed as well. I’m very sorry to have caused you doubt or distress.”

“Well…perhaps I will let you make it up to me once we return to our rooms,” she said with a sly smile.

His lips twitched into the most becoming smile and his eyes glowed with renewed interest. He moved to her side of the coach and lightly cupped her cheek.

“Will you now?” he rasped. “How shall I make this up to you, my darling girl?”

His hands moved to her waist and Sansa felt her cheeks flush as her blood heated.

“Not here,” she said in a scandalized tone as he began pulling her dress up towards her knees. “Not here,” she repeated weakly as his hand disappeared under her skirts.

“Not here?” he asked coyly as she felt his rough, warm hand brush the inside of her thigh, moving steadily towards her center.

“Jon,” she gasped when he slipped past her undergarments and found her folds, sliding a finger up and down.

“You’re wet, Mrs. Snow. Is that for me?” he murmured in her ear before he began sucking on her neck.

“ _Mmmm_ …yes,” she sighed.

“Shall I stop, Mrs. Snow?”

She shook her head and moaned as his finger began circling her nub before entering her again.

“We shouldn’t…do this…here,” she protested feebly.

“We should,” he argued. “The curtains are drawn. We’re alone here. The coachman is up on the box driving and shouldn’t hear a thing,” he said as his other hand cupped a breast. Sansa moaned and Jon whispered, “But you’ll have to keep quiet, sweetheart. You’ll have to be so very good and quiet for me now.”

She nodded her assent. Her head lolled against his shoulder as his lips moved across her throat and then up to her mouth. He kissed her long and deep, never ceasing the movement of his hand underneath her skirts. In and out, two fingers pumped inside of her before they would slide out to tease her pearl, making her breath hitch.

“Jon…” she said desperately. _I’m going to peak here in the coach_ , she thought, only vaguely ashamed of her wanton behaviour now.

“Yes, Mrs. Snow?” he said biting at her earlobe.

“You’re… _ahhh_ …a very naughty man, Captain Snow. _Unnnn_ …”

“Hmmm…perhaps my fair wife will punish me for it later,” he rumbled…just as he removed his finger at the worst possible time.

“Jon!” she huffed in protest.

She’d been so close…so achingly close to that sweet oblivion that only he could bring her. But then her eyes widened with delight when he brought his finger to his mouth and sucked it clean. She moaned and his dark eyes grew darker.

“I just needed a taste, my darling girl. I’m not done with you yet.”

“How far till the inn?” she panted as his hand made its way back up her skirts.

“Far enough for me to make a proper mess of your unmentionables, love,” he replied with a wicked grin before he captured her mouth for another kiss.

She could taste herself on his tongue and then his fingers were back to working their devilish magic. Sansa moaned and closed her eyes, greeting the fall with sinful abandon.

 

* * *

 

 

The next day Jon sent their coach ‘round to collect his aunt from the Charltons as Sansa haggled with the innkeeper about which courses they had to offer their guest.

“She was the daughter of an aristocrat, Jon,” Sansa argued when Jon attempted to helpfully point out that she was probably used to plain fare by now as she had being living as a servant for many years. “And besides, she’s your…” he suspected she was about to say family but at his dark look, quickly amended it to, “relation. We want to give her every proper attention, just as we would do for any guest in our home.”

“Well, we’re not at our bloody home,” he huffed. “More’s the pity,” he finished under his breath.

“Oh…are you saying you’re not enjoying our little time away?” she asked suggestively.

Jon smiled and said, “You know that I am. I enjoyed making things up to you last night…and again this morning, too.”

Sansa’s eyes widened in shock and she flushed the most becoming pink. He moved to take her in his arms but then remembered the unfortunate innkeeper that was still standing there and staring at them with his mouth hanging open. _Bloody hell_. He cleared his throat and Sansa covered her mouth to keep from giggling at his embarrassment. He conceded her point and allowed her to continue planning their meal.

The coach returned at the appointed time and brought Mademoiselle Targaryen with it. She was dressed in a lilac gown which Jon suspected was her best and had her hair arranged in an artfully braided bun.

“Mademoiselle,” he greeted her with a bow as he took her hat and handed it to one of the servants they had hired to attend them in the private dining room. “We are very pleased you could join us today.”

He glanced over at Sansa who nodded her approval at his words.

“Please, sir…I should like it if, now that it is just us, I should like it if you would please call me Daenerys. Or perhaps, Dany. I prefer it and I should like for us to be…” she trailed off looking at him apprehensively.

_Such a meek little thing. You should like us to be what? Close? This is terribly awkward for me as well, you know._

“As you wish, madam-I mean…Dany.”

“And you must call me Sansa,” his wife chimed in coming over to take the young lady’s hand.

“Thank you, Sansa,” she said with a warm smile.

“And…I hope you will call me Jon,” he added only half-heartedly.

“Well then,” Sansa said looking over at the table, “it appears all is in order. Shall we sit?”

The conversation was stilted at times, not due to any language barrier from Daenerys who was as fluent in English as Sansa was in French. They stuck to English though for Jon’s sake. It was stilted more due to his aunt’s reticence to speak when she was not being asked a direct question. In time though the wine did it’s work and she began to speak more freely and more often.

“Viserys is nearly eight years my senior and it was thanks to his efforts that we avoided the guillotine. But he has never recovered from the bitterness of losing what was once ours. When your…when my brother Rhaegar died, Viserys became Marquis. He was young to take on the responsibilities of the title and he had not expected it since Rhaegar was expected to marry and have a son.” She looked uncomfortably away at that.

 _He had a son_ , Jon thought bitterly. _He could’ve married my mother but chose not to once he had sullied her reputation and taken her virginity. Perhaps it’s for the best though. If he had married her, she may have died in child birth all the same or faced the guillotine herself. I could’ve been born a Frenchman and never have known my uncles or the Service. I would never have met Sansa._

Daenerys smoothed down her skirts and spoke again. “Viserys was ill-fitted for it perhaps and even as a girl, I could see many of the peasants resented his haughty ways. There is a…cruelty to him. He does not seem to feel empathy for others. When the Terror began, he was engaged to a young lady, a viscount’s daughter. She was killed, along with all her family. Viserys claims it drove him mad with grief.” Daenerys cleared her throat and looked over her shoulder as though she feared being overheard. “He’s right about one thing. My brother is not sound of mind.”

“It seems understandable that he would be shaken by the loss of his love and the life he knew,” Sansa said sympathetically.

“I don’t know if…I’m not certain how much he loved her. Viserys was more enraged at what had been taken from him, from our family. Many families suffered during the Terror, some suffered far worse than we did. We escaped with some of our possessions and were able to live quite comfortably for a time. In all honesty, we could’ve lived in modest comfort much longer but…my brother is fond of gaming,” she said sadly. “After a time, the money began to run out and our debts started to multiply. It was then that I finally decided to seek employment as a governess.”

“That was very brave of you, Dany,” Sansa said. “I should like to think if we ever found ourselves in need, I should be able to contribute to our family’s needs.”

 _You already do so, my love_ , Jon thought.

Sansa did not see her school as a business venture. In truth, she only charged a meager tuition and that only to the families that could afford it but still she was a practical wife with a head for figures and accounts and not given to extravagance at all.

“My brother…Viserys has nursed his resentment into a passion…for years now. He often talks of when the old order is restored and he is finally able to return to our rightful home how he will have his own guillotine built and all the people that dared reduce him to a pauper will be made to pay.”

“But _you_ realize how unlikely that is?” Jon asked. “Even if England wins the war and some sort of monarchy is reestablished in time, France will not go back to the way it was. Time may heal your nation but too much blood has been spilled for things to ever go back to the way they were.”

“Yes…and I have made peace with it. I don’t mind earning my keep. I don’t want much. I only wish to live as a free woman and be allowed to make my own choices regarding a husband.”

“And your brother is trying to force this match?”

“Yes. Mr. Frey is a horrible, old man…une fouine et un cochon.”

“We’ve heard,” Jon snorted in amusement. “My brother-in-law has spent a good deal of time in Bath the past few years and he has a wide acquaintance. I had asked him if he knew Mr. Frey…and anything of you and your brother,” he finished more soberly.

Whatever she thought of that, she did not say. “I was hoping you might talk with my brother and convince him to stop pressuring me to marry Mr. Frey.”

“He cannot force you to marry.”

“You don’t know Viserys. Constantly, he is in my ear about it. He annoys the Charltons to no end when he comes around and I fear they’ll turn me out if only to be rid of _him_. If I lost my place here…I don’t know where I would go,” she said forlornly. “He doesn’t listen to my objections. He says I am a foolish young woman who does not know what’s best for me. He says I am selfish to refuse the marriage as it would be such a financially advantageous thing for us.”

She drew breath and for just a moment Jon saw a spark of something in her, something quite unlike the meek young lady he had seen thus far. A spirited woman that did not wish to be reduced to cattle to be sold at auction. _Perhaps she possesses some backbone after all._

“Viserys does not work. He stays with friends until they begin to hint that he go and visit other friends. He’s been staying with the Frey’s for the past four months. Mr. Frey is quite elderly. If he were a kind, grandfatherly sort, perhaps I should not mind so much if only for a bit of peace and quiet.” Sansa huffed in indignation on her behalf. “But he is quite awful and lewd. He’s outlived four wives already. I do not wish to be his fifth. But he has made Viserys some promises of a house and comfortable allowance if he will arrange a marriage. Mr. Frey says he has always wanted a French wife with…well, it was quite lewd what he said.”

“If your brother refuses to listen to your wishes, why should he listen to me? And what does he think of me for that matter? I am the bastard son of his long-deceased brother but we have never met.”

“Perhaps if he will not listen to you, my dear, other arrangements can be made,” Sansa stated then.

He looked over at his wife. Her eyebrows were raised and he could practically hear her mind churning from where he sat.

“I will try to speak with him, Daenerys…though I hope you shall not be too disappointed if I don’t succeed.”

“Of course. Thank you for coming and agreeing to do this much. It has been…I am pleased to make your acquaintance. I wish we could’ve grown up knowing one another. We’re so close in age for you to ever look upon me as an aunt but perhaps we could’ve been like cousins. I’m sorry for the way things…with my brother and your mother.”

“Yes. Well, that is not your fault. You were only an infant when that occurred,” he said and was pleased to find that he meant it.

When it was time for his aunt to return to the Charltons, Jon rode back with her in the coach to make arrangements through her to meet with her brother in a couple of days. With Sansa remaining at the inn, he took the opportunity to address the matter of Ygritte.

“I’m sorry for any trouble she has caused between you and your wife.”

“The trouble was quickly resolved. Sansa and I understand one another perfectly well. However, I do not wish the young woman to be in any doubt in this. I am whole-heartedly devoted to my wife and I cherish no hopes or romantic attachments for mademoiselle. I would appreciate it if you would…”

“Certainly. I will make sure that Ygritte is aware of your wishes. I didn’t know you were married until I told Mrs. Charlton of your expected visit. I can only assume Ygritte did not know either. Mrs. Charlton knew your wife’s family and holds your father-in-law in high esteem. I saw him once…along with your brother-in-law at a masked ball thrown by acquaintances of the Charltons,” Dany said with a sweet blush. “Sir Eddard and I did not speak but Mr. Stark asked me to dance. He didn’t know I was only a governess though.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, Mr. Charlton said I could come along if I wished. It was…it was the most magical evening,” she said wistfully. “I was still a girl when we left France. I’d had very little time to be out amongst society then. Forgive me for rambling. I will speak to Ygritte. And thank you, Jon. Thank you for coming all this way to help me.”

“Thank my wife,” he said. “I am ashamed to say that I did not wish to come at all. Sansa was adamant that I give you the benefit of the doubt. I see now that she was right…as always. But, I will not allow you to be forced into an unhappy marriage now that I am here.”

The coach came to a stop at the Charltons then and they bid one another good evening. Jon hoped that her brother would prove amenable to speaking with him but based on everything he had been told, he doubted it.

 

* * *

 

 

Three days later, Sansa sat in the Charltons parlor once more sipping tea with Daenerys. They were gratefully alone this time and spoke freely. Jon had gone to meet Viserys at the Pump Room that morning and said he would take a hackney to meet her at the Charltons since she had made plans to call on Dany.

Ygritte had answered the door when Sansa arrived, putting Sansa out of countenance for a moment. The bold look the maid gave her, eyeing her up and down, did little to relieve her discomfort.

“Est-ce qu’il n’est pas venu avec vous?” she asked quite rudely.

“No, my husband did not come with me,” Sansa replied coolly.

Ygritte seemed to remember herself then and murmured an apology before leading her to the parlor.

“Sa femme, Mademoiselle,” Ygritte said bluntly to Daenerys upon entering. Ygritte sat down as though she meant to join them.

Daenerys looked incredulous for a moment and then composed her features. “Oui, Mrs. Snow is my nephew’s wife...making her my family, too. Thank you, Ygritte, for bringing her in. Don’t you have some things to do?”

Some unspoken tension passed between the two women and Sansa could only wonder at their relationship. They were both French women working together in a foreign country and possibly shared some friendship in that sense. But, as Daenerys was a governess, she should be accorded a certain level of respect from a mere maid. There was some underlying current though that made Sansa think that Ygritte had often taken the lead in things between them.

It seemed odd to Sansa. Ygritte was close to Jon’s age, younger than Dany, and yet she seemed to have the upper hand. _Perhaps Dany is used to being ordered about though_ , she thought as she remembered the way she spoke of her brother and his treatment of her.

Whatever advantage Ygritte seemed to possess though slipped at last and she bobbed a curtsey and made to depart without a word.

“Mademoiselle,” Sansa said as the other redhead went to leave the room. “My husband told me of the terrible circumstances surrounding your capture. He quite admires your spirit. Considering everything, I can understand your…affectionate greeting of him yesterday.” The woman smirked and looked rather saucy until Sansa continued, “No doubt you did not realize he was married.”

Ygritte’s lips thinned into a grimace but she said, “Oui, Madame. Vous e ̂ste tre ̀s chanceux.”

“Oui, je suis…I am very fortunate indeed,” she said with a smirk of her own now.

The maid left and Dany smiled at her. “Tell me of your daughter some more,” she said as she poured their tea.

Sansa happily launched into discussing Sophia and her family. Daenerys asked about her school and the subjects Sansa taught and her pupils. Then, they discussed Dany’s young charges. It was clear she loved instructing the children.

Sansa grew a bit melancholy as they continued talking though. She was pining for home. She had enjoyed the time away but she missed her daughter and hoped that they would not be here too much longer. She hoped Jon could convince his uncle to leave off pestering Dany and they could return home again.

Not that Bath lacked in its pleasures. They had walked all over the city exploring together and enjoyed a ride in the park the previous afternoon.

But Jon’s favorite location in Bath seemed to be the bed at their inn as he kept her in it as much as possible. She couldn’t complain about that.

The day before yesterday, it had rained with thunder and lightning for most of the day and Jon had finally got his wish that they remain abed together all day. Jon’s ardent temperament being indulged at last, he been as attentive to her desires as ever and left her breathless over and over until they were both too exhausted and famished to continue.

Sansa recalled herself to the present as Daenerys was speaking of her childhood in France when there was loud knock at the front door. The parlor door flew open a minute or so later and both women gasped as Jon walked in looking perfectly furious and rather disheveled.

“Jon,” Daenerys inquired, “are you alright?”

“The talk didn’t go well, did it?” Sansa asked, knowing the answer already.

“You could say that,” he said, striding over to help himself to Mr. Charlton’s decanter of brandy. An unusual move for her husband ordinarily but he was clearly in a passion and trying to master it by pouring himself a glass. “I suppose it didn’t go all that well if you consider listening to the most vile, illiberal insults being made about one’s own mother objectionable.”

“Oh, Jon,” Sansa said, hanging her head.

“Yes…I believe the conversation may have taken an unfortunate turn from the start when he refused to shake hands and addressed me simply as ‘the whore’s bastard.’ I am a bastard but I don’t really wish to hear it from his mouth and I certainly do not wish to hear slurs about my mother. But I suppose the icing on the cake was when I told him quite plainly that he would not be getting his way in the matter of his sister’s marriage. I told him in no uncertain terms that his sister could come and live with us if she wished and that she would be welcome there for all her days if she wished to do so. I’m sorry for not speaking of it to you first, Sansa.”

“No, that is perfectly acceptable to me. We’ve plenty of room and I could always use more help, especially if Talisa and Robb return to Winterfell. You would be most welcome in our home, Dany…for as long as you like.”

“You can’t be serious,” Dany said in disbelief.

“Yes, Dany…I am quite serious. And it was when I reassured my uncle that I would take my aunt to live with us rather than see her married to Mr. Frey that he struck me.”

“He struck you?” Daenerys exclaimed in horror.

Sansa’s stomach knotted up instantly in anxiety. _A blow. He would never tolerate a blow_.

She knew so long as gentleman had agreed centuries ago to their little code of honor that permitted killing one another in the most civilized way possible over affronts such as being accused of cheating at cards, there were few things more likely to lead to a meeting between gentlemen as a blow.

It was ridiculous of course and Sansa found it the height of barbarity. But Jon was part of this society and any man who would tolerate a blow and ignore it, other than a parson, would be sneered at behind his back and considered a man no longer.

“Jon…did you…”

“Call my uncle out?” he asked with a strange little smile that revealed nothing.

“Oh, God…please say you did not.”

“No, Sansa, I most certainly did not call my own uncle out though I would’ve been well within my rights to do so.” She breathed a sigh of relief before he continued, “I did however knock him squarely on his ass after he struck me. A blow for a blow would’ve sufficed with a reasonable man. Honor would have been satisfied and we could have agreed to meet no more. However, Viserys did not see it that way and _he_ called _me_ out.”

“Oh, mon Dieu!” Daenerys cried. “I am so sorry. Please…I will speak to him. I will get him to take it back. I will…”

“There is no need for you to concern yourself, mademoiselle. He was in his cups when I arrived and perhaps he will cool off and wish to withdraw his words. I would certainly welcome a withdrawl of them. However, though I have never fought a duel and have no wish to make a widow of my wife, I will most certainly meet him if he does not.”

“Jon!” Sansa shouted. “You cannot possibly…”

“I can and I will, sweetheart,” he said with finality as he sat down with his drink. “I will send an express to your brother as soon as we return to the inn. I will need a reliable second.”

“Jon…” Sansa pleaded.

“So, what were you ladies discussing before I arrived?” he asked, taking a sip of his drink as though he had announced nothing more disturbing than an approaching thundershower.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Personally, I can't resist a hot-headed Jon. We'll see if a duel occurs next chapter.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gabriel arrives in Bath to act as Jon's second in his duel with his uncle.

Four days later, Gabriel arrived in Bath along with Edd Tollett to act as his brother-in-law’s second in a duel with his uncle.

He instantly noted the coolness between them in the small sitting room when he was greeted by Jon in their rooms at the inn. Sansa sat quietly with her lips turned downward and a slight flush to her cheeks that spoke of a very recent storm. Clearly, Jon was not in his sister’s good graces and, while Gabriel certainly understood why that might be the case, he was more interested in speaking with Jon about the actual reconnoiter first.

After the pleasantries were dispensed with, Gabriel said, “I will call on his second first thing tomorrow morning so we may discuss the terms. Hopefully, we can observe the ground together by tomorrow afternoon and this business can be concluded the following morning.”

“Very good,” Jon said with a steely look of defiance towards his wife that he had never witnessed in him previously. “We will wish to leave for Black Castle as soon as possible after the meeting.”

Sansa huffed audibly and left for the bedroom, the door slamming in indignation behind her.

Jon’s steward looked uncomfortably between the closed door and his captain and cleared his throat. “I’ll see about packing things up…for after, sir.”

“Thank you, Edd,” Jon said between gritted teeth, his eyes burning holes in the closed door while equally filled with shame. “Would you care for a drink, Gabriel?” Jon asked then after his steward had shuffled off to the adjoining room.

“Yes, please,” Gabriel replied and waited for his brother-in-law to finish pouring. “Arya says you’re an idiot by the way.”

Jon smiled and shook his head. “She certainly isn’t alone in that,” he said with the most natural smile Gabriel had seen on his face thus far. “What did Robb say?”

“That he wished you didn’t have to fight but that he would certainly have acted as your second if you’d asked him. I think you wounded him by choosing me.”

“Wounded him? Robb is a married man with a daughter.”

“So are you.”

Jon tossed back his drink with a scowl and muttered, “I am well aware of it. I asked you because…”

“I am unmarried and childless and can step in for you if need be.”

“That won’t be necessary, I assure you. I merely wished to keep Talisa from calling for my head as well as Sansa.”

“It’s been that bad?”

“Yes, that bad,” Jon said, hanging his head now and looking far less sure of himself. “She’s…she says she’s going to stay at the Charltons. She won’t speak to me. The past three nights she’s laid beside me and pretended I didn’t exist,” he finished miserably.

“In other words, she’s acting just like a wife,” Gabriel teased.

“Yes but…would you speak with her? Please.”

“And convince her that this is not insane?”

“Have you never been out before?” Jon asked.

“Twice in the short time I was in the army. I’ve been known to have a bit of a temper, you know,” Gabriel chuckled.

“Well…I never have been. It’s not like we have much opportunity to air out our grievances in such a way at sea. And that would never make for a happy ship anyway. We do our best to get along and tolerate each other though we live hugger-mugger, cheek and jowl in such close quarters day in and day out.” He sighed with frustration, pulling his hands through his hair. “I knew it was a bloody mistake coming here!” he shouted towards the closed door.

“Jon…are you not taking your aunt home to live at Black Castle?”

“I am.”

“And won’t that be quite awkward if you’ve killed her brother?”

“I don’t intend to kill her brother.”

“Will he be killing you then?”

“No! I would welcome any opportunity to withdraw…to withdraw with honor that is. And I beg you to discuss it with his second.”

“And is this second any more level-headed than the principal in this matter?”

“I doubt it since he is one of Mr. Frey’s numerous sons and therefore, not likely to see any fault in his father’s friend.”

“Well then…I’ll have a word with my sister,” Gabriel said rising.

“Thank you, Gabriel.”

“Don’t thank me yet.”

They finished their discussion of Jon’s wishes. As the challenged party, Jon was allowed the choice of weapons and he chose swords. They were only to fight till first blood. Gabriel approved the choice as pistols often lead to more deadly business. He just hoped that this Frenchman would honor the rules and not pull any tricks.

And of course, Jon spoke of his other wishes…should things go badly.

 

Gabriel entered the bedroom where Sansa and Edd were in some sort of deep discussion with their heads together. The steward gave him a nod and exited the room.

Sansa rushed to embrace him and then instantly launched into a lengthy monologue regarding the wickedness and utterly unchristian business of fighting duels with the charming volubility of brook after a rain, a most surprising flow.

With any other person, he might have been sadly bored as her arguments were the same ones that had been reiterated a thousand times over the past century. But he loved his twin very much, her beautiful blue eyes liquid with tears and her clear distress moved him deeply and he listened to all she said.

“Nothing I say, nothing at all will persuade him from standing up and being shot at or stabbed with no thought at all of his family!” she shouted towards the closed door as she exhausted her arsenal and was reduced to repeating herself.

“Sweet one…listen to yourself. You’ll be weeping presently at this rate of carrying on.”

“You sound like Papa,” she sniffed.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. I would ask you to consider for a moment that very few duels result in so much as a scratch, a few passes with swords, a redefinition of words and all managed by the seconds to bring an end to it as soon as possible. I do not believe Jon wishes to kill his uncle and whatever his uncle may have in mind, I have faith in Jon’s abilities with a sword. We’ve sparred together many times since he came home, you know. And, I will say in your ear, and your ear alone, that I’ve never seen a better swordsman. Don’t tell him that though. Papa would be grieved to hear me say that of a sailor.” Half a smile appeared before she turned away again. “He is being a blockhead, I’ll grant you that. But he is your blockhead. And I think he is trying to do what he believes is consistent with his honor while helping his aunt. And since men first agreed to exclude from their society those who refuse a challenge, his hands are effectively tied. Above all in the Army or Navy, if he were to refuse, it would be the end of his career.”

“You…men!” she said irritably. Gabriel had nothing to say in defense of that and he waited for her to speak again. “I cannot stay here,” she whispered then and Gabriel was pained to see her shoulders shaking with grief.

“Do you wish to go on home ahead of him?”

“What? No! What if something happened and he…” she paused and drew a deep breath. “I won’t leave. I just can’t stay in these rooms with him until this wretchedness is done.”

“I’ll see you to the Charltons once you’re packed then,” he said before he kissed her cheek and left the room.

 

* * *

 

“More tea, Sansa?” Dany asked uncertainly from the sofa.

“No, thank you.”

 _I’ve had more than enough tea_. Sansa rubbed at her tired eyes. Sleep had not really come last night, alone in the Charlton’s guest room.

Less than twenty-four hours had passed since Gabriel’s arrival and her departure for the Charltons and Sansa was ready to run wild through the streets wielding a sword of her own.

It was raining again. A fairly steady drizzle. It matched her mood perfectly.

She’d not said a word to Jon as she’d left though he’d tried to get her to speak to him and now she was crushed with guilt for it. _If he should be killed and I did not even say_ _good-bye, I shall never forgive myself._ Then, the anger would come right back again.

Dany kept giving her sheepish glances and Sansa simmered with rage at her as well. It was not truly her fault but Sansa wished she’d never sent her bloody letter now.

She tried to remember Gabriel’s words and reminded herself that her husband carried many scars from various wounds he’d received in the service but still walked this Earth.

But the thoughts of returning to Black Castle and to their daughter without Jon…never Jon again…and only a relative stranger with her, made her physically ill.

It was too soon for hopes of being with child after her menses a fortnight ago. But stress and worry had caused Sansa to retch up her chocolate and toast immediately after finishing them that morning.

She was still breathless and shaking when Ygritte had entered the room without knocking, muttering insults under her breath. She’d eyed Sansa insolently. Sansa would’ve liked to slapped her pert face but at that moment she had been far too weak.

Sansa took a sip of tea and wanted to lie down. She wanted to go to Jon at the inn and tell him she loved him no matter how angry she was over this business.

The bell rang at the door announcing a caller and Sansa wondered if she could escape unnoticed. She had no desire to meet any of Mrs. Charlton’s acquaintances at present. But it was no acquaintance of Mrs. Charlton. It was Gabriel fresh from surveying the agreed upon location with Monsieur Targaryen’s second.

He was shedding rainwater everywhere as he pulled off his coat and hat. Sansa rose and kissed her brother’s cheek and introduced him to Daenerys. He had come to call on her and the only information that mattered, that Jon would be meeting Viserys at dawn the next day, was quickly conveyed.

Dany and Gabriel seemed to strike up an instant rapport which was just as well since Sansa sat brooding over the thoughts of what the morrow might bring. _A wife or a widow_.

They fell into an amiable discussion about things Sansa didn’t bloody care about right now. When Gabriel made the discovery that he had met Daenerys at a masked ball the previous year, Sansa rolled her eyes and begged them to excuse her.

She started towards the stairs and to her room but Ygritte was making her way down them with a bundle of wash in her arms. She had no desire to see her or hear any muttered comments so she swiftly turned towards the front door.

Her chest was tight and she felt her eyes starting to water. She had no hat, no gloves and it was raining. She didn’t care. She had to get out of there and away from this madness that was eating her alive.

She raced down the front steps and was nearly to the street when she recognized the man standing at the corner with his hat in hand as her husband.

“Jon?” she said. He had apparently been standing in place for a time. His hair was soaked, his clothes as well. He looked at her so beseechingly, pleading for her to not turn away from him. “Jon,” she said softly.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a ragged voice. “I’m sorry you’re married to such a fool. I cannot stand this, Sansa. I’d rather sail to Java and back than spend another minute being loathed by you. Honor be damned if it means losing your love.”

“Jon, I don’t loathe you. Quite the opposite, you know.” She walked closer and could feel the rain soaking her morning dress and running down her back. Her hair was wet and already clinging to her face and neck. None of that mattered. “You could never lose my love.”

He looked pained at her words, as though he didn’t believe them. “I thought I’d apply for a post with the Sea Fencibles…or the merchant service if need be. I don’t belong on shore, Sansa. I only ruin things,” he said bitterly.

“That’s not true. Please, Jon…come in out of the rain, my love.”

“I hate him. I hate her. I wish I’d never met either of them. I hate my father. I wish they’d all…I’ll withdraw. I’ll have Gabriel send word to…”

“Come in out of the rain,” she begged again.

He stood perfectly still, his eyes glazed over with tears. She touched his arm and she felt him tremble at her touch.

“I can’t…” he began.

“Of course you can,” she said, gently pulling him by the hand and towards the front steps.

They were both soaked thoroughly now and she opened the door and led him up the stairs without stopping at the drawing room where she could hear Dany and Gabriel still talking away twenty to a dozen.

Ygritte appeared at the head of the stair. She gasped when she saw Jon. Sansa ignored her and Jon didn’t even appear to notice her. He blindly followed Sansa, letting her lead him to her room.

“Take off your coat,” she said as she closed the bedroom door behind them. He quietly removed it and she took it from him. “Take everything off,” she commanded next as she began unbuttoning her dress. Jon stood there gaping at her so she walked back over and said it again. “Do as I say, Captain.”

He nodded slowly as though he suspected none of this was real. He had stripped down to his breeches and Sansa was down to her shift when there was a knock at the door. She opened the door just a crack to find Ygritte standing there with a wide eyes.

“What is it?” Sansa asked as mildly as possible.

“I thought the captain might like some tea to warm him.”

“We don’t require any tea right now.”

“Well, uh…did you need anything else?” the maid asked as she realized Sansa’s state of undress.

“No,” Sansa said with a smile. She opened the door wide enough for Jon to be visible just long enough for Ygritte to have her gawk. “Everything I want at the moment is right here in this room.” She lowered her voice and said, “Je ne m'attarderais pas dans le couloir. Vous ne pouvez pas aimer ce que vous entendez." _I would not linger in the hallway. You might not like what you hear._

Ygritte flushed and fled at once.

“Sansa?” Jon asked from beside the bed.

“Get those pants off,” she said as she closed to door. “Get in my bed.” He did as he was bid. Sansa pulled her shift over her head and removed her underthings. He looked at her in wonder as she climbed in next to him. “I will not force you to withdraw from this duel…though I still do not approve.” She kissed his cheek, his neck, his chest…working her way ever downward. “Instead, I believe I will give you something to fight for on the morrow. When you face that man…” she said as she kissed his belly and followed the trail of hair leading to his manhood, “remember why you must win and return to me.”

She grasped his length with her hand pulling a pitiful whimper from her husband before she continued trailing kisses closer and closer to her destination.

“Yes, love,” he sighed as her mouth closed over his cock. “I’ll remember."

 

* * *

 

 

He awoke in the night with Sansa pressed against him. _Four bells perhaps_ , he thought. _Dawn is still a good way off_.

He stretched and heard a sleepy groan from Sansa. He reached out and touched her belly beneath the sheets to assure himself she was real and still naked.

All the fear and anguish from the past few days had been bled from him. Just a few sweet hours of bliss in her arms was all it took.

He hadn’t meant all that he’d said as Sansa knew very well. But he’d been so broken the previous morning when he’d awoke from a restless and troubled sleep without her beside him. It was then that he realized how meaningless his honor and his career were to him without her love.

He’d waited until Gabriel had left to meet Mr. Frey and then written to the Admiralty asking for a ship, any post, any employment they could give him. Something to keep him busy, make him useful again, keep him from ruining everything they had with his temper. Then, he’d torn the letters to shreds.

He wanted to be home with his wife and daughter. He didn’t want to rush off to sea but he felt so out of his depth ashore…and everything about this trip to Bath, barring his time alone with Sansa, only made that feeling worse.

With a lurch, he thought of his wife. He wept for the pain and worry he was causing her. He grieved over this foolishness that threatened to make her a widow and his daughter fatherless.

The thought of Sophie had been what truly drove him to walk the streets of Bath in the rain while he reconciled himself with forsaking his honor and his status as a gentleman for the love of his girls.

_Let them call me a craven. They already call me a bastard. What difference does it make?_

And, he would’ve let them, too…though it smote his pride fiercely.

But then, Sansa had reacted differently than he anticipated. Always keeping him on the watch…even after years of knowing her.

He thought of her fiery red hair spread across his thighs as her head bobbed up and down as she sucked at him. His hands were clenching the bedsheets and he could scarcely draw breath. As he neared his peak, she pulled off him and climbed up his body. He grasped her hips, helping her to steady herself before she sank down around him.

“Don’t forget this tomorrow,” she’d cried as she began riding him brazenly, chasing her own peak.

Her moans and wails of pleasure had grown louder. Her hands were grasping at her breasts. Jon’s eyes nearly rolled back in his head and yet he could not tear his gaze from the glorious spectacle of his wife just then.

“I won’t” he’d croaked, fighting to not spill…not yet.

Now, he lay abed staring at his sleeping wife. He would fight in a few hours. Sansa had begrudgingly given her ascent. Jon only wanted the whole affair over with. He was not afraid of facing his uncle…so long as he abided by the rules.

An hour later, he rose and washed. He dressed quietly and kissed his wife good-bye. Her eyes were open but she did not speak at first.

“I’ll come here…after,” he said as he pulled on his boots.

“I’ll wait for you here then,” she said steadily.

“Will you ask Dany to be ready? We can send for the rest of her things.”

“I will,” she replied.

He turned and pulled her into a crushing embrace. She was still unclothed and he ran his hands along the soft skin of her back and nuzzled her neck where her long red hair hung loose, committing to memory more reasons to return in a few hours.

He quickly said that he loved her before his resolve could break. He raced from her room and down the stairs, out of the house and out into the night where Gabriel would be awaiting him at the inn.

He walked along the streets, welcoming the exercise of the long walk and not caring that it was the middle of the night. It was summer but he was grateful for the briskness of the night air to clear his mind.

He was surprised at the calm he felt rising within him as he walked. It was not an out and out belief that he would prevail for that would be the height of foolhardiness, pride always coming before a fall.

Rather, it was that same sense of readiness he usually felt before heading into action; an eager, almost cheerful desire to get to it after the long period of waiting, sure of his shipmates and his ship as they came up to engage the enemy.

When he reached the inn, he found Gabriel asleep on the sofa. It was a quarter past five.

“It’s time,” he said to his brother-in-law.

 

The lawn where they were to meet was discreetly hidden by a wood. It was suitably flat and often used to settle these things. Their coach was the first to arrive and Jon sat calmly waiting for his uncle’s arrival. Gabriel seemed more nervous than he was. He chewed at his nails and eyed Jon curiously from time to time.

“What is it?” Jon asked at last.

“Where did you go last night?”

“Pardon?” Jon asked, not quite understanding.

“You weren’t at the inn when I returned though it was still early in the afternoon,” Gabriel scowled. “You didn’t return until near dawn this morning.”

“I was…I was at the Charltons…with Sansa,” he said. “Did you think I’d…”

“I don’t know,” Gabriel said with an audible sigh of relief. “You were both so angry with one another. And you wouldn’t be the first man to seek a wench before a meeting.”

“I’d never be unfaithful to your sister, Gabriel. There is no other woman for me.”

“Good,” he said with a sly smile. “I was afraid we’d be having another duel before long.”

Two carriages arrived and Jon looked out to see his uncle descending from one. He and Gabriel walked out and stood on the far side of the green. Monsieur Targaryen’s second came over and greeted Gabriel. Three other men were set to keep the ground and a surgeon was there as well.

“Good morning, gentleman,” young Mr. Frey, a rat-faced man, said. “There is no accommodating the affair on this end…unless your principal wishes to make an apology and withdraw.” Gabriel didn’t even glance back at Jon but simply shook his head. “Very well. If you are happy that there is light enough, I think we should begin.”

Jon nodded and Viserys approached, a haughty sneer on his face. A different Mr. Frey, this one looking like an indignant hog, appeared with two swords, giving Jon first choice. He tested it for only a moment and signaled that he was satisfied.

Viserys was finely dressed, his cravat freshly pressed and his hair coiffed as though he meant to attend a ball rather than this sort of meeting.

Jon removed his jacket and cravat and laid them carefully on the ground. He would be freer to move in just his shirt. He pulled his hair back in a queue to keep it out of his eyes.

They both took up their stance where instructed. A third closed carriage rumbled up last minute but Jon did not have time to look and see if more Freys had come to watch.

“Gentlemen, you may begin,” Rat-Face said.

They stalked around one another in a wide circle, sizing each other up. Viserys kept swinging his sword around as though he thought he would intimidate Jon in such a way. Jon smiled inwardly and nearly felt sorry for his uncle. Such displays rarely spoke of true ability.

Jon was not always the most patient of men but he suspected he would not need to be patient for long. The wild look in his uncle’s eyes spoke of a man who was not accustomed to waiting.

Sure enough, Viserys darted forward sooner than expected. Jon swiftly dodged his lunge and parried his thrust. He batted his sword away with ease and moved in for a strike.

Close, so close to a hit…but Viserys made a lucky leap backwards with a shout.

For several minutes, they danced around the circle, drawing close enough to cross swords before leaping back again. It did not matter. Jon’s focus was centered on ending this farcical matter and returning his wife and taking her back to their home.

His uncle, however, had grown more impatient. He made a dash forward, no form, no form at all…and Jon had him. A quick slash and Viserys instinctively reached for his cheek where Jon had drawn first blood.

“Blood!” Gabriel shouted. “Well struck, Jon. A hit?”

Rat Face looked over at this piggish brother and finally said, “Acknowledged.”

Viserys turned and hissed at his second in French. Jon turned away to walk back to Gabriel when he heard his cry.

“Behind you, Jon!”

Jon turned and leapt back just as Viserys came hurtling towards him with his sword raised high above his head. Little good it did him as Jon quickly drew his sword again and, in two swift passes, ploughed up his uncle’s thigh and forearm. Viserys shrieked in pain but turned to slash blindly at Jon’s head again. He missed by a good three feet and Jon closed quarters, plunging his sword through his uncle’s shoulder. Viserys lost his footing and fell flat on his back. Jon placed his booted foot on his chest and put his sword-point to his throat.

“Yield,” he said with eerie calm. “Yield and ask my pardon, Uncle. Ask my pardon or you are a dead man,” he said in a voice as low and deadly as the day of Judgment.

“I ask your pardon,” said Viserys, his eyes equally filled with pain and hate.

Jon tossed his sword in the dirt and strode away from his uncle’s moans and cries. _Home. We will go home_.

“Jon!” a woman’s voice screamed from the carriage that had arrived late.

To his consternation, he saw his wife emerge with Edd and Mr. Charlton. Sansa left both men behind as she raced to his arms. Despite his wish that she had not been present for this, he pulled her into a warm embrace.

“If that’s blood, I’ll need to set it to soak at once,” Edd said taciturnly as he approached them both.

Sansa gave a startled gasp at the implication that perhaps he had been harmed after all. Her eyes were wide as she looked him up and down.

“I suppose it is a bit of blood,” Jon said with a quick glance at where he’d absent-mindedly wiped his sword on his breeches. “None of it is mine,” he said as he met her eyes.

He looked over at his uncle who was being attended by the surgeon now and biting down on a bit of leather as the man probed his thigh.

“It’s done then?” she murmured, stroking his face.

“It is, my love. And I will endeavor to never fight a duel again, I swear it.”

“Then, let’s go home.” She turned back to the carriage and Jon saw his aunt emerge, face pale and drawn in the early light. “All of us,” Sansa said.

“Very well,” he said and escorted his wife back to the carriage where his aunt waited.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa enjoy lazy summer mornings in each other's arms and time at home with family. Sansa and Talisa make some plans. Davos brings information from France to Sir Jeor and Jon receives a summons. Viserys stews over his resentments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update at last! I am so sorry for any of you that are still following this fic. I struggle with this one...a lot. I didn't with the first two parts of the series but this one is my Achilles apparently. But I am still writing it as I love this world setting for Jon and Sansa very much. I hope you'll enjoy the chapter.

_June 1802_

_Petersfield, England_

 

“Christ, I love being home,” he sighed contentedly. Sansa hummed in agreement as she stroked his face and kissed the base of his throat. “So…then what, my wicked wife?” Jon asked as she continued kissing her way across his chest.

Sansa looked up from her kisses and grinned mischievously at her husband before she licked her lips, tasting the saltiness of his flesh on her tongue.

They were both nude in the bed with the covers thrown back on this exceptionally warm summer morning. Her hair was sticking to the back of her neck with sweat…not that Jon seemed to mind in the least. His own curly locks were damp and a bit more tightly coiled than normal.

“And then we would travel down the Seine via a covered barge on a bed of pillows and silks. No one would see us from where we hid behind the screen.” Sansa’s lips traveled from his chest to his belly and lower still. Jon’s hips jutted forward of their own accord and she smirked knowingly at him. “In a hurry, my dear?”

“You have no idea,” he rumbled.

“Oh, I think I do,” she said.

Sansa moved further down towards his straining manhood. She could hear Jon’s shallow breathing. _Quite desperate, poor thing_. She leaned forward and could hear the hitch in his breathing. Then, she brushed the tip with her lips, just the merest kiss, before her head rose back up and she continued talking.

“And as we sailed along, we’d enjoy grapes, the fresh and fermented sort, and finely aged cheese along with…”

Jon audible groan of protest at pleasure delayed made her bite her lip to keep from laughing. He tried to pretend that he was still interested in their conversation though he was not convincing.

“And…” _an exasperated huff of air_ , “And then what would we, um…” _a pleading glance, his eyes moving from her mouth to his cock_ , “do there?”

Sansa let her breath tickle his flesh as she said, “Hmmm…that is a good question.” She looked down at his cock intently…but then said, “Of course, this is just a hypothetical trip to Paris for the two of us so I really couldn’t say with any…”

“Sansa…” he whimpered.

She decided to have mercy on him. “Would you like for me to…” she said, looking down at him again. He nodded rapidly and she giggled before closing her mouth over him at last.

“Oh, sweetheart…please don’t…stop,” he begged as she started to suck him. “Christ!” he shouted as he threw his head back into his pillow.

Sansa moaned in response and felt Jon’s hands carding gently through her hair. She worked her way up and down his member, her tongue tracing the vein on the underside of it before she sucked at him some more. She took her time, sweet and slow and torturous but her husband never could last long when she did this.

“Shall I climb aboard now, Captain?” she teased.

“ _Unnn_ …yes…sweetheart,” he said in a strangled voice and Sansa knew he struggling to keep from spilling in her mouth without even having to look. “Climb aboard…my love.”

Sansa rose to her knees and straddled him before sinking down to envelop him. Soon, it was she that was moaning in delight as his dark brown eyes watched her movements with love and desire shining brightly in them.

“That’s it, darling girl. Find your pleasure first. I love watching you come apart for me.”

“Oh, Jon!” she cried as she neared her peak, her hips snapping in time and her pearl find the ideal friction to bring her sweet release. “You’re… _ahhh_ …so…”

“I’m so what, Mrs. Snow? Tell me, my wanton girl.”

“So good,” she sobbed as the wave of her climax broke over her at last. “I want it…I want it to never end.”

Jon slammed up into her more forcefully as he grasped her hips. “It always ends, my darling,” he grunted. “But that only means we can look forward to,” _a thrust,_ “the next time,” _another thrust_ , “and then…the next… _uhhh_ …”

But before he could reach his own release, there was a sudden, sharp rapping on their bedroom door.

“Bloody hell,” he grumbled, stilling at once as Sansa collapsed with spent pleasure across him while panting heavily. “Yes! What is it?!” Jon shouted towards the door next in clear agitation.

Sansa could feel his cock twitching within her. It made her long for more of him.

“Papa? The sun is up, sir,” came Sophie’s clear treble through the door.

Jon groaned in partial frustration and partial embarrassment. 

“Is it? I’ll, uh…be down…um…” He began loud and clear but faltered helplessly when Sansa smiled deviously and started rolling her hips. “Fuck…Sansa…you naughty little…” he growled under his breath, eyeing her breasts hungrily.

“Papa will be down shortly, little love,” Sansa said loud enough for Sophie to hear. “You can… _ohhhh_ , Jon. Stop it,” she hissed as his mouth closed over a pert nipple. “You can await him in the parlour. Your Aunt… _ah_ -Arya…is likely up as…as well.”

“Yes, Mama,” the child called before she scampered off.

Sansa felt a hearty whack on her backside. “Jon!” she squealed.

“Defaulters at six bells this morning, Mrs. Snow,” he said huskily. “You get a dozen across a gun for being such a wicked little minx.”

“And is this the gun I’m to be turned over?” she asked cheekily, glancing down at his muscular torso.

“Oh, yes,” he replied before he brought his hand down again.

A stinging sensation rippled across her backside followed by a caress and Sansa moaned as that delicious urgency tightened in her loins again. She started moving in time with his thrusts.

“More, Captain,” she begged, wiggling her ass to encourage him along.

He’d only reached eight when he came with a roar, so the last four were applied swiftly and half-heartedly as he spilled within her. His mouth hung open in ecstasy, his eyes were closed and his cock was thrusting in time with her movements. Combined with the spanking, they all served to drive Sansa to that sweet apex once more before she cried out his name and collapsed heavily on top of him again.

They were breathing normally again and just kissing and touching each other’s faces when there was yet another knock at the door.

“Bleeding Christ,” Jon sighed.

Sansa laughed heartily and rose from the bed. “It’s likely Milly,” she said.

  
She threw on her dressing gown to open the door for her maid and discovered it was not her. Barristan Selmy stood on the other side. The old seaman’s face turned a bright red to see his mistress in a clear state of post-coital dishevelment.

“I beg pardon, ma’am,” he said whilst studying his feet intently. “Miss Sophie begged me to remind the Captain that we was ‘aplanning on going fishing this morn.”

“Yes, Selmy. I’m certain he remembers but I’ll be sure to let him know that our daughter is very eager to be off.”

The poor old man knuckled his forehead and ambled off to seek his young mistress in a rush.

“What were you saying about a trip for two to Paris, sweetheart?” Jon asked from the bed and Sansa laughed once more.

 

Summer had come to Black Castle and the air was filled with the fragrance of roses from the gardens and the buzzing of insects. The pupils had been dismissed for the summer and would not be returning until September. Sansa found herself with time aplenty on her hands to enjoy her daughter and her husband…and her husband in their bed.  
However, she was often left to seek her own entertainment as Jon and Sophie rode off early most mornings on adventures of their own. She could not really resent it though when she saw the two of them together, thick as thieves.

Jon had purchased a small boat to take out rowing on the large pond at the westernmost edge of the estate and he and Sophie spent hours fishing with Old Selmy when the weather was fine.

Sophie would be five in September and Sansa planned to have her attending lessons regularly at that point. _Let her have her summer with her Papa_.

Sansa roamed the emptier halls of her home but they were not truly empty of course. Robb and Talisa had extended their stay but intending to travel to Winterfell in time.

Sir Eddard had expressed a desire to come and visit soon and bring Rickon.

Daenerys was settling into her new home with the family well enough. It was clear there was some mutual attraction between her and Gabriel but so far nothing had come of it. And Parson Tyrell had met the new addition to the household the other day and instantly taken a liking to her. Sansa suspected though that once Willas discovered that Daenerys was penniless, he’d move on to more potentially profitable, eligible young ladies. Gabriel wouldn’t care about such things but he was younger than her, four years younger. She hoped that such a thing would not deter them if they were serious.

Young Mr. Waters had left the day before and Sansa knew that Arya would be quite downhearted…if not for the fact that they had reached an understanding at last. Gendry had set off with the intent of writing to Papa for his blessing and going to his home in Liverpool to inform his mother. He would return to Black Castle and her sister soon enough. Of that, Sansa was quite certain.

 

She was balancing the household accounts in the study near noontime when Jon returned from fishing. She could hear Sophie chatting happily to Selmy before they moved down the hall towards the kitchens.

“Good day, husband,” she said while working still. “Are the morning’s battles won then?”

He dropped a kiss on top of her head and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Yes, we were quite successful. Sophie caught a fish and Selmy promised he’d show her the proper way to fry one up.”

“May it profit her,” she smiled.

“Speaking of profit…what is all this?”

“The household budget…quite thrilling, I assure you,” she said dryly. “Don’t you have to keep track of books and such aboard?”

“Yes, of course,” he said like a great sulky boy as he sank down onto the settee nearby. “And it’s possibly the dullest thing there is. Worse than rowing against the wind for miles on end even. So…are we bankrupt yet, Mrs. Snow?”

“Not at all,” she laughed as she finished and closed her books. “In fact, we did rather well this quarter with some of our investments.”

“All thanks to my clever wife.”

“Thank you,” she said before giving him a most winning smile. “And since that is the case, I have a request.”

“A request? What would you like, my love? If it is to be had, I will purchase it for you at once.”

“Well…” she began as she rose and came from around the desk and took a seat in his lap. She played with his hair for a moment.

 _I think I’m going to like this_ , he mused before his face turned suspicious. _Or perhaps not_.

“What is your request, darling wife?” he asked again.

“I was talking with Talisa a little while ago. She and Robb have decided to go over to Paris before settling at Winterfell.”

“Oh, well…I hope they enjoy it. We will miss them here though. Soph will miss her cousin dearly.”

“Yes,” Sansa agreed sadly. “It’s a shame the girls will be parted. So, Talisa and were thinking that we could keep them together a bit longer if we…if we went to Paris as well. They’re taking Fanny and we could take Sophie.” Jon scoffed and started to speak but Sansa held up her hand. “Talisa has good friends there that have invited them to stay and said we would be welcome there as well. This might be the only opportunity to go if the war resumes next year or the year after as you fear.” Jon groaned and rolled his eyes. “Oh, Jon…please. I’ve never been to Paris.”

“Nor have I. Who would bloody well want to go there anyway?”

“Jon…we have been war against the French government. But I cannot find it in my heart to hate the French people. And Paris…I’ve always wanted to see it.” He lifted his eyes to hers, a softening look. “You liked Spain will enough.”

“I liked Oberyn’s estate in Spain and that was because you were there…and in bed with me much of that time,” he added with a glint in his eye. “The other parts I saw...I did not care for so much.”

“Jon…”

“Why can’t we just enjoy being here? I’d rather stay by my fire in the evenings, go fishing in the mornings and ride Blue. I like waking with no…”

“A perfect country gentleman, Captain,” she teased.

“Sansa,” he said, “I would not object to it if we had reason to believe this peace were lasting but it isn’t going to be. It could be dangerous.”

“Tosh. Everyone is flocking over there. Theon wrote to say he spent a month there in May. Margaery Tyrell is going in the fall.”

“Well, I’m not the Earl of Pyke or Miss Margaery Tyrell. I am a serving officer in His Majesty’s Navy. And I’m surprised at Robb wanting to go considering that he is…”

“Talisa can be quite convincing,” she shrugged. “I suppose she has certain talents.”

“Yes…I’m certain of it,” he laughed. “And you are quite convincing with talents that I adore.” She gave him another pleading look and he sighed. “I’ll think on it, alright? It’s not that I would be opposed to seeing Paris with you but…you’ve not forgotten who lives there now, have you?”

Sansa hung her head. Of course, she hadn’t. She wished that she could though. “No, I’ve not forgotten him.”

“Baelish’s star may have lost some of its luster in the circles of power in Paris but he’s been living there for years now.” Sansa knew he had a valid argument and, after pushing him about going to Bath, she would not push him for this. “I could not bear for you or Sophie to be in any danger, my darling girl.”

“I know,” she acquiesced. “We will not go if that is your decision.”

He hated denying her. She knew it very well but she meant what she said.

“I’ll think on it,” he repeated. “Perhaps if we are traveling together and with a few precautions, it will be fine.”

 

* * *

 

 

_July 1802_

_Whitehall_

_London, England_

The clock struck noon in Whitehall and Admiral Sir Jeor Mormont looked down at the documents spread across his desk whilst rubbing at his temples and longing for a bite to eat. His secretary hovered nearby, a constant irritant. He missed the sea and being aboard ship with a passion on days such as this.

 _I was not meant to sail a desk_ , he thought sourly.

“The suggestion was made to take this on to his lordship but I thought to bring it to your committee’s attention first,” Davos said intently.

The field agent at his side looked around the office furtively. A largish man with no hair. Not at all the sort Jeor would’ve taken for a spy. _Perhaps that’s what makes him a good one._

“So, Napoleon is setting up more of these semaphores along the coast of Calais?” he asked.

“And Dunkerque, my lord,” the agent said.

“I am no lord, Mister…”

“Rugen, sir. And my friends tell me of increased activity in Cherbourg as well.”

“It may mean nothing. They’ve been using their semaphores for a few years now. Perhaps it’s only a network to warn Paris of any invasion from our fleet as they claim.”

“Very likely,” Davos said. “But I thought it was noteworthy all the same. It could also be a network to organize a coordinated invasion of their own.” Davos walked over to the desk and pointed to a section of the top paper, half-way down. “I thought the name of the man in charge of this little matter curious as well. He’s not in their army…a mere civilian.”

Jeor’s eyes widened for just a moment when he saw what his friend had pointed out before he pulled his customary mask of complacency back over his face.

“Of course, it’s noteworthy. It would be as well to put a ship there…a smaller one to monitor the activity discreetly. Thank you for your efforts,” Mormont said as a dismissal to the intelligence agent before dismissing his secretary as well. He rose and poured Davos a glass and they settled down to speak frankly. “Have you spoken with Jon Snow lately?” he asked.

“I have. I saw him here a month or so ago. He was answering some questions regarding that matter with Pole from last year.”

“Yes…an unfortunate business that was though Jon acted as honorably as I would’ve expected.” Jeor considered his options. “You know my feelings for Jon personally and my goddaughter of course.”

“I do,” Davos said with a nod.

“Ned has been seeking Petyr Baelish for years now. It seems strange for him to turn up at the coast. Paris is one thing but the coast…a dangerous place for a wanted man like Baelish to hide.”

“Well, our sources had said he had fallen out of favor with many. Apparently, he has been given this assignment to keep him out of the way…or to get rid of him.”

“I could just tell Ned. He knows men that could…” Jeor trailed off and shook his head.

“I did not think that was Sir Eddard’s way.”

“No, it’s not. And with the fragile state of the peace, anything we do must be carefully considered. Baelish still has a few powerful friends.”

“He does,” Davos said. “Jon feels quite strongly about the man being captured though. If we could bring him back to England, he’d be hung as a traitor. No one in Paris would say a peep about that.”

“Yes. I would not wish to put Jon at risk foolishly though. He’s a sailor through and through, not an agent.”

“Not at all,” Davos agreed. “But we both know he is an intelligent man and capable of adapting to changing circumstances with cunning and acumen. In short, he’s very qualified for certain sorts of missions.”

“A small ship to monitor things, something that will not attract too much attention...just to have a look for us,” he mused aloud. Jeor looked over the documents again and drew out a map of Northern France. “Sansa may never forgive me,” he grumbled at last before hailing his secretary.

 

* * *

 

 

  
“You’re certain?” Jon asked in wonder as he felt the lump rising in his throat.

“Well…as certain as I can be this soon,” she replied with a sweet blush.

“Oh, Sansa!” he exclaimed, scooping her up in his arms in a twirl and kissing her soundly. “You make me the happiest of men!”

“Jon…you’re squeezing the life out of me,” she laughed.

“God, I’m sorry!” he shouted before delicately putting her back down again. “Are you unwell? Should you like to sit? I can call for some tea if you wish.”

“I am perfectly well,” she said in amusement. “No illness at all so far which is a pleasant change from how sick I was with Sophia. It was the fatigue that first made me realize actually but…”

“Sit,” he ordered at once, pulling her over to the settee.

“It’s too early to tell anyone else yet,” she said as he sat beside her holding her soft hands in his own. “But I wanted to tell you.”

Jon could only smile at her in adoration. His beautiful wife, his love would be having another child. _A father again…and I should be here this time._

“I suppose Robb and Talisa will wonder why we’re not going,” he said.

“Pardon?”

“To Paris. I don’t suppose you should not travel now…considering,” he said gesturing towards her flat stomach.

“Travel is not an issue this early, my love,” she said assuredly.

“Oh...well, if you’re certain,” he said uncertainly.

“I am,” she replied with a nod that told him that was the end of the discussion.

He had overcome his fears and agreed to the trip just a few days earlier. They had already started to pack. He would not be allowed to take it back now.

Sansa was so excited for the trip and that had made him excited as well though he still enjoyed complaining about it. The six of them would travel to Paris for two weeks and enjoy this holiday together before Robb and Talisa took Fanny north to Winterfell at last.

Sir Eddard was coming to visit Black Castle with Rickon and would return north with Robb and Talisa. They might arrive before their return from Paris even. He could spend some time with Arya and Gabriel. There was hope that Bran would be granted leave soon as the _Endeavour_ had returned to home waters before setting off for more scientific and exploratory missions.

 _A fine thing if we should all be together here…if only for a short time_.

All the Starks and himself under one roof. Jon could not even recall the last time that had occurred.

 

Sophie came in a few minutes later and asked if they could walk in the gardens before dinner. Jon walked behind his wife and daughter on the narrow paths. He watched the pair of them, their hands linked, and listened to them talk of birds and flowers…in French.  He did not pretend to understand all they said.

He wondered if there would be another daughter to join them this time next year. A small bundle to carry in his arms. _Or a son perhaps_. Jon hadn’t even seen Sophie until she was a few months old. He pondered what it might be like to hold his newborn child in his arms. His eyes clouded with emotion.

“Papa?” Sophie queried as she turned back to look at him, her ebon ringlets shining and her blue eyes full of concern. “Are you unwell, sir?"

Jon wiped hastily at his eyes and caught Sansa’s soft smile. “I am well, my little lady,” he said to his beloved daughter. “But we had best head in. The wind has veered and rain approaches, I believe. We shall get a ducking if we wander too far from the house.”

 

The courier had arrived shortly after dinner. He was sent to the kitchen for a bite and some small beer and invited to warm himself by the fire there in his soaked clothes.

Jon had stared at the letter for several minutes before finally forcing himself to crack the seal and read. He stood by the window reading and rereading, wishing Sir Jeor had come to the point a bit more clearly though he suspected he would learn all that they wished him to know in London.

He needed to find Sansa and tell her. He loathed telling her though…just as he loathed what this letter might mean.

“Well?” Robb asked from the table where they’d been playing cards on the stormy evening.

“I’m…I’ve been summoned to the Admiralty.”

“For orders?” Jon shrugged. “Have they a ship for you?” Robb asked next.

Jon fidgeted with the corner of the letter as a feeling of foreboding over took him. He had not anticipated this. They had been so content these weeks since they’d returned from Bath. He looked forward to his daily adventures with Sophie. He spent every night with his wife lying in his arms. And now a new babe was likely on the way.

Surely, they didn’t mean to call him away now in the middle of the peace.

“It doesn’t say. Here,” he said handing the letter to his brother-in-law, a heavy feeling of defeat settling on his shoulders.

“’To Commander Jon Snow of His Majesty’s Navy, etc., etc,” Robb read. “You are hereby requested and required to report yourself to the First Lord of the Admiralty on the 27th of June for potential reassignment…’ But it comes from Mormont, you said?”

“It does.”

“Well…what the bloody hell could it be other than a ship, Jon?”

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“What about Paris? And what will Sansa say?”

“I don’t know, brother. I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

 

  
The rain that had been pouring down since early afternoon had left Portsmouth in puddles this night. They’d stopped at Clark’s Tavern for the night. He had managed to talk the younger Mr. Frey into loaning him some pounds for the passage.

There was no place for him in Bath and, without Dany’s income from the Charltons and as he was no longer welcome by old Mr. Frey, Viserys decided it might be best to head back to his homeland.

_Where else do I have to go?_

However, after consuming two bottles of wine, the anger that never quite left him had swelled to a blazing sense of righteous indignation of all the wrongs he had suffered since 1792.

“Fair weather for your voyage tomorrow, monsieur,” young Walder said affably.

“Hmmph.” _Eager to be rid of me_.

“Perhaps it is for the best. You can return your homeland and…”

“For the best?” he asked raising his eyes from his wine. “For the best?! To return to my ruined country?! Alone?! My sister has been stolen from me, monsieur! By my bastard of a nephew! How is that for the best?!” Viserys shouted.

He winced as he stood too quickly, the chair turning over with his swift movement and his shoulder paining him for it. He had his nephew to thank for that.

Jon Snow...the mere thought of him lit a fire of hate within Viserys in an instant.

And his thigh was no better than the shoulder. Climbing stairs and riding left him with a good deal of pain through the night. And so, he drank…early and often.

The tavern’s comely wench came over to see what all the fuss was about. “Is there a problem, gents?” she asked politely.

“Go away,” Viserys slurred at the younger woman as he took a seat again. “No…wait. There is something wrong. This wine tastes like vinegar.”

Her blue eyes sharpened a bit but her tone remained conciliatory. “It’s my father’s best wine, sir. None of the other patrons seem to…”

“Do I look like I care what these peasants think?!” he sneered.

“Perhaps an ale instead,” she suggested, though a flush crept up her neck.

“An ale? I don’t want your ale...fucking Anglais salope,” he hissed under his breath.

“Salope?” the woman said indignantly at that…and in perfect French. “Maintenant…écoutez-moi, vous imitez! Si vous ne quittez pas cet établissement à la fois, je le ferai…“

“Elisabeth,” a gruff voice said from behind Viserys. “What did your Papa say about yelling at the customers?”

“Viserys,” young Walder said as his eyes widened taking in the man behind him. “Perhaps you should…”

“Fucking Jon Snow!” Viserys ranted, consumed with his own thoughts. “I should go and get her back, you know.”

“Viserys…”

“This dandy called me a slut, Sandor!” the woman shouted. “I ought to…” She started to lunge towards Viserys but then the largest man Viserys had ever seen put his hands around her upper arms and held her in place.

“Calm down, wife,” the man said. “I’ll teach the cunt some manners. Go and help your papa.”

The woman gave him another glare but then huffed off and Viserys laughed. “You should really keep that wife of yours in line,” he smirked.

The big man leaned over the table, filling all of Viserys’ view. He placed his hands on his shoulders and growled, “It’s time for you to leave, little fop.”

“Yes,” the Frey said, practically quaking in his boots. “We meant no offense to you or your good wife, sir. Here’s a little extra coin for your trouble.”

“Yes…extra coin,” Viserys said in amusement. “Does she tumble sailors for half a crown? I’d wager she brings you a few extra coins that way.” He was far too drunk to realize his error.

A few seconds later, he found himself tossed into the rain, soaking wet in a muddy puddle with an aching backside. He screamed in rage.

“That was ill done, you fool,” young Walder said walking out the door. “Now, you’ve lost our place for the night.”

“Piss off!” Viserys roared. “I don’t need you telling me what to do! I am…”

“Nothing but a beggar! A _former_ aristocrat with no title, lands or money now! That’s all you are! Father is done dealing with you and so am I. Good evening to you now.”

The Frey stormed away into the night and Viserys felt the hate coil inside him like a snake wishing to strike. But who to strike? Who did he wish to hurt the most?

“Fucking bastard,” he grumbled. “Fucking ungrateful little bitch.”

The harbor was at his back where the ship awaited that would sail him back to France. It was docked and due to depart in the morning.

 _There’s nothing for me there. There’s nothing much for me here. But what little is here…I will take back_.

He cast one long look towards the harbor and then headed north. North, northeast…towards Petersfield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some historical notes...semaphores (or the early telegraph) were used starting in the late 18th century and Napoleon made use of them for swiftly conveying information to Paris from the coasts of France. Great Britain made use of them as well during the war. After the Peace of Amiens, England felt vulnerable to the threat of invasion from the French and their allies and more stations were built along the coast there to inform London of any invasion fleet but I suppose France had similar fears.
> 
> Secondly, Englishmen and women (particularly the wealthy) did indeed flock to France and especially Paris during the Peace, including officers of the Royal Navy and the Army. Paris was considered the cultural and learned center of Europe in many ways after all...though I assume Jon Snow would prefer to stay at home by his fire. 
> 
> However, at the end of the Peace, Napoleon made the (as of then) unprecedented move of seizing all male British subjects who were in France, civilians and soldiers alike. In Patrick O'Brian's "Post Captain," Jack Aubrey and Stephen Maturin are visiting friends in France when war breaks back out, leaving them in the uncomfortable position of having to escape an enemy nation. This will not happen to our protagonists though they may face danger in France.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon travels to Whitehall and finds himself in conflict once more between what his heart wants and his desire to do his duty. While he is away, Black Castle receives a visitor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lisa, I promised you an update before Thanksgiving and here it is. I am so sorry to keep you waiting so long though, my dear, and any of you that are enjoying this story. Too many irons in the fire is my only excuse!

The coach rumbled along the road to London and Jon tried shutting his eyes for he’d had little rest the previous night. Sansa had been devastated by his news though she’d tried her best to hide it. He’d told her that he had no orders other than to report himself to London and Mormont and that it might be nothing more than some inquiry. But she knew better just as he did. Commanders weren’t ordered to Whitehall just to pass the time of day and the inquiry over the Pole affair was already concluded.

Sophie only knew that her papa was traveling to the Admiralty and would return by Saturday. Jon could not bear the thought of telling her he’d be leaving. And the thoughts of returning months or even a year or more later to see how she’d grown in his absence and learn of all he’d missed. Combined with his fear of a return of her indifference towards him…it was enough to break a man.

He was in uniform again for the first time since his visit to Whitehall in the spring and the old familiar broadcloth coat was already growing damp with sweat on the muggy July morning. _Far better suited for a blow in the Channel than a humid summer day_.

Arriving in the late afternoon, he spent a tedious evening at his Uncle Brandon’s townhouse. Lord Snow and his wife were in the country at Snowden Hall for the summer but his butler immediately welcomed his employer’s nephew in as Jon had an open invitation to make use of the house whenever he was in town.

But without his uncle or Jeyne there, the house was quite lonesome with only a couple of servants creeping about. Jon had left Edd in Petersfield but now missed his faithful steward’s company...even his nagging. At least it would’ve helped pass the time. Instead, Jon sat alone in his uncle’s study wishing he was home.

When the hackney stopped at Whitehall the next morning, Jon climbed out and put his hat on only to remove it again as he entered the long hallway where he’d sat as a midshipman awaiting his examination for lieutenant several years ago. It was filled at present with several sea officers, men without ships like himself hoping for employment. Most of them didn’t have appointments though and would spend their day waiting and never be seen by anyone besides the clerks and porters.

Half-pay could be very hard to live upon for a man without private means, especially if he had a wife and children to support. Jon would certainly live more meanly were it not for Sansa’s dowry which Sir Eddard had adamantly insisted they accept and what Jon had managed to earn in prize money aboard _Queenscrown_ and _Alayne_.

 _Alayne_ … _I wonder if they’d let me have her again_ , he thought wistfully and then chastened himself for thinking it. _You don’t want to go, do you?_

There was a part of him that did though, a part he was ashamed of in light of how happy he was at home and how much he loathed the thoughts of leaving Sansa and Sophia. That maritime part of him that was happiest walking a deck and looking out at nothing but miles and miles of endless sea though…that part of him longed to be at sea again if only for a while.

He was directed to Sir Jeor’s office and gave his name to his secretary. Admiral Mormont immediately came out to greet him with a warm hand shake and an affectionate pat on the shoulder.

“Jon! It’s been a terribly long time,” his old captain said.

“It has, sir. It’s very good to see you.”

Sir Jeor smiled amiably and led him into his office where he offered him port and a chair. Jon took the drink, though it was early for it, and sat where indicated.

Mormont returned to his desk and regarded him for a moment before asking after Sansa and Sophie. Jon reported that both were well and asked after Jorah, his captain’s son who sailed as a privateer after being dismissed from the Service.

“He’s well enough. Not so much business for privateers during a peace though so he’s more a merchant captain at present.” Jon nodded and waited for Mormont to continue. It was not his way to delay, even if he felt his news might be unwelcome. The old man smiled and said, “I’ve known you since you were fifteen, Jon, a green boy that knew nothing of the sea.”

“Yes, sir.”

“It both pains me and gives me joy to offer you a ship and a mission. Joy because isn’t that what all sea officers long for when they are ashore? But pain because I know this news may not be so welcome to a family man such as yourself.”

“Where and for how long, sir?” Jon asked, feeling that earlier dread redoubled as his fears were confirmed.

The question was a touch impertinent for a commander to ask an admiral but he knew he was free to speak plainly in Mormont’s presence with no other officers present.

“Just in the Channel and over to Calais. As of how long maybe a few months…maybe longer.”

The Channel was good…home waters and opportunities for leave perhaps. “Will I be sailing _Alayne_ again then?”

“No,” Sir Jeor said with a firm shake of his head.

That was a blow. Jon had hoped he could round up a good portion of his old shipmates and take command of his beloved sloop again. However, Mormont cracked a smile and his next words caught Jon full aback.

“No, you’d be in command of _Jonquil_.”

“ _Jonquil_ , sir?” Jon asked as his mind quickly raced through the list of active naval ships and confirmed his initial thought. “But _Jonquil_ is a twenty-gun ship. She’s a…”

“A post ship, yes. I thought it only right that if I’m to tear you from Sansa and your daughter during the Peace that you at least get your step at last.”

“My step,” Jon breathed as his heart started galloping.

It was not entirely unexpected that he might become a post captain once the war resumed but he’d never anticipated being promoted during the Peace. It had been his dearest wish from the time he’d been a boy at his Uncle Benjen’s knee listening to his tales of the sea and the Service that he loved.

Once an officer was made post, he was set. Barring death or being dismissed the Service, up and up he rose on the lists of post captains. A steady, unwavering rise that had nothing to do with interest or connections. He would be at the very bottom to start. But, not allowing for a few highly irregular circumstances that could push an officer back down, any man made post after him would forever remain beneath him and any man above him would remain his senior until that man died or left the Service. And then, when one reached the top of that list, he’d be made an admiral at the very next opening…just as Mormont had been.

“Sir…I…” he began unsteadily. _Christ, don’t cry_ , he thought desperately as his emotions threatened to unman him here in the halls of Whitehall.

“Yes, yes,” Mormont said testily, never one to allow for too much gushing or enthusiasm. “You have earned it through merit, Jon, and I can’t say fairer than that. But before you thank me too much, perhaps you’d like to know exactly what’s being asked of you in exchange for this step.”

That spark of emotionalism was effectively squashed as his earlier dread returned and a new budding curiosity developed.

“Yes, sir…I would.”

 

* * *

 

 

The sweat rolled down his back as he climbed out of the hackney and begrudgingly paid the driver. Jon removed his hat once more before ducking into Fladong’s as yet another summer storm threatened. The roads were all a mess and the traffic had been intolerable. Jon missed the quite country roads around Petersfield immeasurably.

_Or the sea. No question of overturned wagons and squabbling civilians making a muck of things there. I’d have fared better walking and would’ve been spared the fare._

He smiled to himself at his small pun and glanced about the crowded dining room in search of his dinner companion. Lord Pyke was easy enough to spot in his plum-coloured coat at the establishment that was frequented by naval officers. Even with the Peace, most were in uniform and Theon stood out…like the peacock he was.

Jon had suggested meeting here as it was in the heart of Piccadilly and Theon had mentioned he had shopping to do on Bond Street today.

“There you are at last,” Theon said with that smirk of his that even to this day rankled in some way.

He liked Theon very well and he was deeply indebted to him for the care and concern he’d shown for Sansa in darker days but he still found him vexing at times. And, as Jon was very particular about punctuality and Theon never was, being called out for his tardiness was especially aggravating.

“Yes, here I am,” he said. “I should’ve bloody walked but with the threat of rain…”

“You preferred not to get your finery doused,” Theon concluded, looking him up and down.

“Yes,” he nodded as he sat down to join him. “Let that be a lesson that vanity over one’s uniform will only make one late. I am sorry for keeping you waiting. How’ve you been, Theon?”

“Blooming, Jon. I am blooming. Did Sansa tell you my news?”

“That you are to marry Miss Tyrell, the sister of our parson? Yes, she told me. Congratulations to you. Allow me to buy us a bottle.”

“Thank you, Jon. That’s handsome of you,” Theon chuckled and then preened with pleasure as he proceeded to tell Jon all about the lovely Rose of Highgarden.

Sansa had called the match ideal in many respects and Jon’s more pragmatic side had to agree. Theon had nearly been ruined by Petyr Baelish’s schemes and Margaery Tyrell would bring a hefty dowry to her husband. And, while his title was an Irish one, a lord was still a lord. And, as Miss Tyrell’s reputation had been a bit blown upon in the past and even more recently, she’d stirred a good deal of talk with the ton. She found herself quite eager to accept Theon’s timely proposal and safely cross over into the protection the title wife would provide her.

Of course, Sansa, being the romantic creature that she was, preferred to see it as purely a love match and was hopeful that they’d be blessed with a long and happy marriage. And based on Theon’s praise of Miss Tyrell, Jon decided his wife might have a point. Clearly, Theon was much attached anyway.

Jon sipped his wine and looked forward to his dinner. It’d been a long day already. And though he had many concerns about leaving Sansa and Sophie and this mission of his, he found himself sharp set for his meal.

The timing was not ideal, far from it. He wanted to be home with Sansa when her time came and perhaps he would be. There were no guarantees though.

He remembered Davos’s words from years earlier about how a sea officer found himself torn between his home on shore and his ship. He didn’t wish to leave his girls and yet the excitement of a new ship and new voyage was already building as he did his best to follow Theon’s flow of talk.

“So, tell me what has brought you to London in your uniform, Captain Snow,” Theon asked after he’d exhausted the subjects of Miss Tyrell’s smiles, her manners and her fashion sense.

Theon was very pleased on his behalf and, though Jon could not relate the nature of his mission to Theon, part of him hoped that he could indeed capture Baelish, not only for Sansa and their family but for Theon and what he’d been cheated of by that man.

“And when do you sail?” Theon asked as they both dug into the lobscouse at last with relish.

“ _Jonquil_ is laid up with repairs for another month and Mormont is giving me three weeks before I’m to report. Of course, I can’t just lie about all that time. Manning her during the Peace shouldn’t be quite so difficult but there’s a couple of appointments I’ll need to make. I’ll have to write to Gendry at once and see if he’d wish to sail with me. God, Arya may be calling for my head though.”

Theon laughed at that but nodded, knowing he spoke the truth.

“Still, I’m relatively free until I report myself. I’m tempted to keep Sansa and Sophie to myself at home until then but I believe we’ll sail to Paris with Robb and Talisa if she still wishes to go. I dread sending my news along to her,” Jon said uneasily. “Perhaps I should just wait until I’m home on Saturday to tell her.”

“Sansa would be happy to learn of her husband’s promotion, I should think,” Theon said. “It might be best to prepare her as well…though I’m sure she already suspects that you’re going. She’s been preparing herself for that since you came home, I’d say.”

“What does that mean?”

“I remember when the two of you were in town in the spring. She was afraid that you would not be happy ashore with her for long.”

Guilt twisted through his guts for his earlier enthusiasm. Even if it were in the Channel with chances for leave in abundance, he would still be _Jonquil’s_ captain. He couldn’t just skip away home every time they were in port. This mission would involve weeks of not laying eyes on his beloved wife and daughter. And, if the opportunity presented itself to capture Baelish, he’d be going ashore in France…a very tricky and dangerous business.

“But, I am happy with her! I didn’t…” he protested hotly and Theon’s eyes widened. He looked around at the turned heads and lowered his voice. “I know of her worries from the spring. We…we worked through all that,” he muttered. “I…I don’t want to leave her Theon. I’ve been very happy with her ashore…and Sophie.”

“And yet you are excited by this,” Theon said smoothly with no question in his tone.

“I…I am a little,” he said regretfully, raising his eyes to his friends. “Am I horrible?”

“No…just a sailor,” Theon said affably as he poured more wine. “Sansa knows it.”

“It’s not as though I’ve been writing to Whitehall asking for a ship,” he said defensively.

“I wasn’t saying that,” Theon said, raising a hand. “I just thought I’d mention that your darling wife might appreciate the reassurance that you’re not so eager to leave.”

“Well, I’m not,” he said in a huff. 

“And yet you are.”

Jon shrugged and pushed his food away. He had no appetite after all.

 

* * *

 

 

“Mama? When is Papa coming home again?” Sophie asked for the fourth time in as many hours.

Sansa bit her lip and resisted the urge to snap at her daughter. It was not Sophie’s fault that this had happened, now of all times.

“Tomorrow, my little love. He may be home by supper time.”

“And may I tell him about the new foal and Fanny’s tooth and Uncle Bran’s letter?”

“Yes, my dear. But tonight, it is time for you to go to bed.”

“Yes, Mama.”

Sansa tucked her daughter in and felt a pang of nausea. She had not been ill with this pregnancy but anxiety had gnawed at her since Jon had left. It seemed to be bringing on some of the less pleasant symptoms of her condition.

She retired to her bedroom and closed the door. She picked up Jon’s letter that had arrived express and reread his words.

 

_Sweetheart,_

_I know not how to put this into words that will bring you joy or comfort but I hope part of you will be glad for me when I tell you that I am to be made post. It has long been my ambition, long before I even entered the Service, and I am pleased to know I have achieved this aim far sooner than I had hoped. However, the Admiralty doesn’t give men their step in times of peace without some employment in mind._

_I will share more of my mission with you in person but I am free to tell you in this letter that I am to be given_ Jonquil _and as she is undergoing repairs for another month, I will still be able to sail with you to Paris though I will need to return home sooner than anticipated to man the ship and get her ready for sea. I will also assure you that these orders do not take me far from home waters so I hope that you may find some comfort in that._

_Sansa, do not imagine that I am not deeply conflicted about this. While I am pleased to advance in my profession and serve my country, I am heartbroken at the thoughts of leaving you and Sophie for any amount of time, especially bearing in mind the news you shared with me this past week. These few days alone without you have been difficult enough to bear._

_If the good Lord and the muddy roads will allow, I will return to you Saturday evening as promised and, if you still wish to go, we shall sail on Tuesday for France. In the meantime, know that you are my heart and soul, my love. Believe that there is no place more dear to me on this Earth than by your side and Sophie’s. I could not serve my country with half as much heart if you were not the living, breathing embodiment of that for me._

_I will end this by sending you my love and a prayer you are well. Please give my dearest love to Sophie and everyone else at home_.

 

                                                                                                                                                        _Your faithful husband,_

 

_Jon_

 

Sansa laid the letter aside with a sigh and closed her eyes. He would be leaving them in a month. She wanted to be glad for him. She was. She was proud of her husband and happy for his advancement. But that did not mean that this was not difficult to bear, especially now.

She bore him no ill will. She knew him well enough to know that while part of him would be broken hearted to leave, another part would be overflowing with eagerness to lay eyes on his ship and get to know her and her ways with the wheel under his hands as he stood on her deck. It was who he was and Sansa would never wish to change that.

 _I will save my frustrations for my godfather, I believe_ , Sansa thought with a small smile.

Sir Jeor had written to him personally after all and that meant he had specifically wanted Jon for whatever this mission was. And no doubt, he wished to see his protégé made post.

 _I’ll have a few words for you when we meet next, Sir Jeor Mormont_.

She laughed to herself despite her disappointment over Jon going. She just as quickly reminded herself that she would have him for a few more weeks and that they could still take their planned trip, although she and Sophie would need to sail back separately with Robb, Talisa and Fanny now. It was still better than when they had been parted as sweethearts and duty had called him away with only enough time for him to write a quick letter to slip in the post.

_You’re a sailor’s wife, Sansa Snow, just as your mother was a soldier’s wife. This is part of it as you have long known. Crying silly tears over such things will do no good and will only make it harder for him to do his duty. And you must set a good example for Sophie and be brave for her._

She squared her shoulders and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She pasted a smile on her face and told herself to be brave…just as a gun shot rang out nearby.

 

* * *

 

 

Robb and Gabriel sprang from where they’d been sitting over their port in Jon’s study as the report echoed in the still summer night. There was a shout from outside, a vile curse.

Robb could faintly hear the horses in the stables neighing and the dogs down at the barn barking like mad. Black Castle was already settling down for the night. And the quiet little village of Petersfield was a few miles away.  Edd Tollett and most of the other seamen that acted as servants when ashore had went into town for a little gaming and drinking this night.  It was him, Gabriel and Old Selmy here alone with the women and girls.

_That shot was just outside. Someone is here.  Hopefully, just one someone._

“What the bloody hell was that?” Gabriel shouted.

“That would be a musket shot, I believe. I thought you’d been in the army,” Robb replied wryly, stubbing out his cigar. “Come along,” he said to his younger brother.

He went to Jon’s desk and removed the small, silver key before turning to the locked case behind it and pulling out a musket and a hunting rifle.

“Mine’s empty,” Gabriel said after checking the musket.

“Here,” Robb said, passing his brother a ball and powder from the shelf after checking the rifle. “Stay close, little brother.”

“Sir!” Selmy said from the doorway excitedly, “There’s some sod on the porch firing a gun. Likely you heard.”

“We did, Selmy. Keep the women out of the way,” Robb said as he moved past the old man into the hall.

But Jon’s aunt was already down the stairs in her night rail and robe with her long silver hair down her back. She rushed to Robb with a frightened look in her violet eyes.

“Monsieur…it is my brother,” she said in a tremulous voice. “He’s come to take me away, I fear.”

“Fear not, Mademoiselle. Whatever he thinks he comes to do, he won’t be taking you anywhere,” Robb said assuredly.

Gabriel walked over to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. Robb noted the way Daenerys leaned into his brother and Gabriel wrapped his other arm around her waist. He whispered something to her in French.

Sansa and Gabriel had always chittered away to one another in other languages as children. They’d been blessed with an amazing ability to learn them. Robb had never had much luck picking them up at all.

But this was not just a word or two of reassurance in the young lady’s mother tongue. This was something else. Something that had apparently been going on beneath his nose for a while now.

Gabriel was softly stroking her cheek now and the lady was tearfully pleading with him. Robb might not know the words she spoke but her intent was clear. _“Please, be careful. I don’t want you to go out there.”_

He felt like an interloper and embarrassed to be witnessing their private moment. But as another curse rent the night along with another shot, Robb recalled that there were more pressing matters.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa rushed from her room and down the stairs to find Gabriel, Robb and Dany clustered together and Selmy approaching her.

“Back up the stairs with you, ma’am,” the old seaman ordered her in a tone that brooked no argument…except that she was the lady of this house.

“Selmy! What’s happening?” she asked.

Robb and Gabriel were armed with a rifle and a musket respectively.

“Come along, Miss Targaryen,” Selmy said over his shoulder to Dany instead of answering his mistress.

“Selmy?” Sansa asked again as he walked over and took Dany firmly by the arm and guided her towards where she stood. “Robb?”

“Major Stark said to keep you out of the way, ma’am. And the Captain would never forgive me if I didn’t do as much. Back up the stairs now. Go to your daughter.”

“Robb!” Talisa called from behind her.

“Stay upstairs!” Robb said gruffly. “Selmy,” he said next giving the old man a nod. 

Old Selmy smiled indulgently at the three of them. Old he might be but it was clear that he’d carry them bodily up the stairs kicking and screaming if necessary.

“Come along, Dany,” Sansa said. “Talisa, we must see to the girls.”

Sansa climbed the steps but looked over her shoulder once more at her brothers. They were headed to the door.

“Robb…Gabriel…” she said, mostly to herself.

“DANY!” a voice from outside the door screamed as someone began kicking the door. “DANY! Viens dehors, putain! Où est-elle, espèce de bâtard?”

“That’s no way to speak about your sister or nephew!” Gabriel sneered in reply through the door.

The front door shuddered ominously as the madman kicked it repeatedly.

Sansa froze on the stair, no longer able to pull herself from the scene below even as her logical mind told her to go.

“Gabriel,” Robb chuckled. “This idiot came here to die and you’re correcting him about his language.”

“Well, it was quite rude,” Gabriel replied primly.

It astounded her how calm they both were, jesting together.  But then, she recalled what Jon had told her once about how effectively trained men would go about their duties in the face of danger.

 _“Use makes master,”_ Jon had said _. “That’s why we practice and practice, over and over. When the men know what to do, know their role and there’s a competent officer to execute the orders, they’ll keep fighting an amazingly long while…through blood and fire…even in the face of defeat. I’ve seen them go about their tasks quite cheerily when to the untrained eye all would appear to be utter chaos.”_

The door creaked and complained. Another shot and Sansa could see splinters flying near the door knob. One more kick would do it.

“Get out of sight, Sansa!” Robb barked at her just as the door flew open.

Her brothers raised their weapons as Viserys Targaryen burst inside. He held a musket in each hand and raised the one in his right hand. Sansa could not even hear her own scream as all three men fired at once.

But when the smoke cleared, she heard Dany’s scream as she rushed past her on the stairway to her brother’s side…not Viserys but to Sansa’s brother. Gabriel had been hit.

In the doorway, a figure dressed in black with silver hair lay staring up at the ceiling with unseeing eyes. Robb walked over and knelt. He felt for a pulse and then closed his eyelids. He rushed to his brother as Sansa did.

“I’m sorry,” Gabriel was saying to Dany. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

“He would’ve killed you,” she said, stroking his face. “He would’ve killed me or Jon…or any of us. He was mad.”

“Selmy!” Sansa shouted as the old man followed her down the stair. “Send one of the lads to fetch the doctor!”

But Gabriel, the great fool, was smiling where he sat on the floor now. He was laughing and saying there was no need to wake Dr. Luwin this time of night.

“Tis a scratch, nothing more,” he said as Daenerys kissed him repeatedly across his cheeks and nose and forehead. “You’re safe, ma chère. You need never fear him coming here again.”

“You could’ve died,” she was whispering as she cried. Her eyes looked over towards where her brother’s body laid and her tears were renewed.

“I could’ve. I didn’t,” he said gently as he wiped her eyes before he pulled her to him and kissed her soundly on the lips.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long chapter but I hope you will enjoy :)

 

_Portsmouth_

_Thursday, July 29, 1802_

 

In the familiar though heavy broadcloth of his uniform coat once more, Jon glanced down at the heavy epaulette made of bullion that now graced his right shoulder instead of the left. Sophie had been understandably unimpressed by the mark of her papa’s elevation in rank but Edd had nattered on over Sansa’s shoulder as she had attached it to the coat last night, no doubt feeling that this was his rightful task as captain’s steward and he had egregiously been usurped by the captain’s wife. Once Sansa had finished though, the three of them had stood admiring her handiwork as though they’d never before seen something so fine.

Jon smiled at the memory of it as he stared at the epaulette some more. However, he soon caught Gendry smirking at him and swiftly returned his attention to other matters.

Jon sipped the cold ale Mrs. Clegane had brought out at the table that Mr. Clark had kindly placed outside his tavern for Gendry, Clegane and himself to meet with potential shipmates. The sun was hot as it beat down upon the back of his neck with the approach of noon. Not much longer until they could seek some shade and relief from the morning’s task.

He wiped the sweat from his brow with one of the new handkerchiefs Sansa had made him and smiled to think on the first time she’d given him one long ago, the night they met. That first handkerchief had been taken along with the rest of his paltry personal effects when Jon had been captured by the Spanish over a year later but he still regretted the loss. The same delicate blue rose was embroidered in the corner as on the former one but now she’d entwined the letters J and S in the other corner. Some might’ve thought it was merely his initials but he knew differently.

The last man to join the line stepped up and pulled off his hat, knuckling his forehead to the three of them in salute as Jon tucked his wife’s gift back in his pocket.

“Name and rating?” Gendry asked in a bored voice from where he sat next to Jon.

“Smith, Joe Smith, sir. Able seaman. Captain of the foretop aboard my last ship, sir.”

“And what brings you here today, Smith?”

“Well, I was paid off after the Peace came, sir. My captain was sailing for the Cape but my wife wanted me home. But now…well, we seem to have another little one a coming and she thought…I mean, _we_ thought some regular pay might be welcome like and all.”

“There are plenty of merchantmen in port, Smith,” Gendry said. “Why would you rather serve His Majesty?”

“Well, sir…but I’ve always served aboard men-o-war and I don’t take as well to the ways of merchantmen.”

Jon looked the man over with a professional eye and noted his tattooed forearms and pierced ears. He was nearing his middle years though still strong. His pigtail had been eked out with some tow for length. He was swaying somewhat where he stood on dry land and obviously a bit frowsy from whatever pothouse he’d lain in last night though Jon would hardly call him drunk by naval standards. And, he had the look of a man-o-wars-man to him. If Jon were not mistaken, he thought one of the tattoos was of the _Endeavour_ , his Uncle Benjen’s ship.

“Who was you last captain?” Jon asked the seaman. He heard Clegane huffing beside him but ignored that.

“Captain Benjen Snow, sir,” the man replied with an easy grin. “And I thought, seeing as how he’s your uncle and all…”

“The captain didn’t ask you to give him his family tree, did he?!” Clegane barked.

“No, sir,” the man replied hastily.

Jon ignored the bristling of his bosun and asked, “And if I wrote to my uncle, what would he say of you, Smith?”

“Well, sir…I reckon it’d take a while to hear back since he’s probably just now reaching the Cape, sir.”

“Yes…but if I were to hear from him, what would he say?” Jon prodded.

“I hope he’d say I was a good seaman, sir.”

Jon smiled to himself and wondered if it were true. After a few months of time ashore to tumble their women and empty their pockets, plenty of seamen were paupers once more and missing their natural way of life. They had their pick of seamen willing to serve with no war on. The merchant captains had grown quite choosy about who they’d take aboard and they no longer were offering the high wages they’d needed to lure prime seamen during the war. Smith might be an abysmal addition.

 _Not if he were Benjen’s captain of the foretop,_ his logical mind argued.

“And did you know a young midshipman aboard _Endeavour_ named Brandon Stark, Smith?” he asked next.

“Aye, sir. Mr. Stark was a good ‘un to all his men. He was over the starbowlines though and I was one of the larbowlines. He fought in the mizzentop afore Captain Snow put him on the gundeck.”

Jon smiled to himself to hear that Bran was doing well. “Very well, Smith. He will do, Mr. Waters. Give him a chit to see the paymaster. We’ll see you on the 28th of August, Smith. _Jonquil_ is expected to be ready to leave the dockyard then,” Jon said.

“Not till then?” the man asked bleakly.

“Not till then,” Jon replied and wondered how anxious Mrs. Smith was to see her husband back at sea…or how anxious Smith was to escape Mrs. Smith.

“Aye-aye, sir,” the man said resignedly before knuckling his forehead again and heading off.

“If anyone was to’ve asked my opinion…which they didn’t…I’d have said, I know of old Joe Smith. He’s a drunk and he’s probably got about five so-called wives anticipating a new addition. No doubt he’s looking for a way out of town for a bit till the dust settles so to speak,” Clegane grumbled under his breath. “And just in case you was interested, sir…your uncle disrated him from captain of the foretop right before peace was declared. For being drunk on duty…from what I hear.”

“Is this what you do in that tavern all day, Clegane? Sit around listening to all the latest seamen’s gossip for me?” The large man scowled and him and Jon tried not to smirk too broadly.

“Well, if we’re for taking on drunks then, I’ve one to recommend, sir. Red Thoros is a drunk but I wouldn’t mind having him for a mate again,” Clegane muttered.

“Thoros is welcome…though you may have to roll him to the ship in a wheelbarrow if he’s as drunk as he was the night before you wedding.” Clegane’s eyes widened and Jon said, “See? I hear gossip, too.” Before his bosun could open his mouth and put himself in the awkward position of speaking chuff to his superior though, Jon said, “It’s a start, gentlemen. I’ll return from France on the 21st or thereabouts. Mr. Thorne has agreed to join us then. We’ll give _Jonquil_ a thorough going over and see what we’re lacking. Give Mr. Clark and Mrs. Clegane my regards, Mr. Clegane,” he finished.

“Aye-aye, sir,” Clegane said.

He looked over the list of men they’d signed up today and then handed it to Gendry.

Gendry was still a midshipman but Jon hoped very much to see him with his commission before this mission was completed. He had already informed Mormont he planned to appoint him as acting lieutenant. A ship _Jonquil’s_ size would require two more.

Unfortunately, Jon’s premier had already been selected by Mormont. Alliser Thorne had been Mormont’s first lieutenant aboard _Queenscrown_. Mr. Thorne had known Mr. Midshipman Snow as a fifteen-year-old, newly joined volunteer. He’d seen Jon sent to the masthead more times than Jon cared to remember and had him turned over a gun a time or two when Jon was still a mid.

However, Mr. Thorne’s taciturn ways and his rotten luck of never being in the right place at the right time when it came to a major ship battle or cutting out mission had resulted in him never being promoted. Sir Jeor had liked his old lieutenant well enough but he knew his limits. He was a taunt officer and a right hard horse when it came to discipline and cleanliness…an ideal first lieutenant. But, several in Whitehall knew Alliser Thorne was not cut out for independent command. And, Mormont being a bit soft-hearted for all his bluff talk felt sorry for the man thrown on the beach with nothing but half-pay to support a lonely existence.

He had been resentful when Jon, a man half his age and with far fewer years at sea than himself, had advanced above him. And now that Jon was a post captain, he suspected that resentment would be increased ten-fold.

Jon bid Gendry farewell as he was planning on catching the coach to Petersfield to spend some time with Arya before it was time to return. Sir Eddard had decided to come down to Black Castle with Rickon to visit his younger daughter and Gabriel while Jon and Sansa travelled with Robb and Talisa and the girls to France. It was a good opportunity for Gendry to get to know his future father-in-law better though Jon knew he was nervous about that. It was also a good opportunity for Gabriel to introduce his father to Daenerys since he planned on marrying her.

The past week had been stressful on many levels. Returning home from London to find his Uncle Viserys dead and the magistrate at his home questioning his wife, aunt and brothers-in-law had been unexpected to say the least. But to learn that Viserys had come to his home armed, intent on harming Daenerys and himself and potentially anyone else that got in his way had shook Jon to his marrow. For his uncle to have shot at his home in a blind and drunken rage, the home where his beloved wife and daughter along with the rest of the family lived filled him with an ungovernable rage. He was glad his uncle was dead for if he had not been, Jon might’ve torn him limb from limb with his bare hands.

He was pleased for Gabriel and his aunt to have found love and hoped they would be happy together. His aunt had been torn between her own fury over her brother’s crazed final act and her grief over his death as he had been the only family she had known for much of her life.

However, she had begged a favor of Jon which he was not so pleased with when she’d asked him to see his uncle buried in France.

“S’il vous plait, Jon…he would wish to be buried in France,” she’d cried. “Near where our home was.”

Jon had tried not to roll his eyes too noticeably at her plea. It would mean sailing to Brest instead of LeHavre and cutting their trip to Paris even shorter. He had thought a simple service at the Anglican church would suffice but he didn’t say so to Daenerys. And, Jon supposed he didn’t really want him buried on the estate as he would hold no happy memories of the man.

Thus, Robb, Talisa and Fanny had sailed on Tuesday as planned while Jon and Sansa had been forced to wait till Friday to cross. Edd would be sailing with them and had been in a right state since learning of these developments.

“We’re gonna sail…on a Friday, sir?” he’d sputtered when Jon told him the plan.

“Yes, Tollett,” Jon had said noncommittally from the table at the inn where he, Sansa and Sophie had taken rooms until then.

“But…on a Friday, sir? With a corpse…” Edd lowered his voice and added, “And a woman.”

“The woman is my wife, Edd,” Jon replied smoothly while attempting to suppress his own qualms.

The lower deck held to their superstitions like a parson might cling to the Holy Scripture. Jon knew this. He was an intelligent and educated man but he was also very much a seaman at heart. Women aboard were bad luck. Sailing with a corpse was worse luck. And setting sailing on a Friday was just asking for trouble.

“It’ll be perfectly fine,” he said to the back of his steward’s head as the man crossed himself. “You’re not a bloody Catholic so cut that out at once!” he added irritably.

Edd looked at him sourly as Jon smoothed down his cravat and mentioned wanting more coffee.

“Sailing on a Friday…with a corpse. May as well bring a black cat along while we’re at it. I always knew I’d die at sea,” Edd muttered as he shuffled off to refill the pot.

Sansa had laughed at their superstitions though and, as Friday morning dawned bright and sunny with the wind promising an easy time for warping out, Jon chastised himself for allowing Edd to rattle him.

The four of them made their way down to the brig _Archer_ which would be sailing them to Brest. It was commanded by a young commander who had agreed to give Jon and his family a lift out of professional courtesy.

During the war, the brig had acted as one of those discreet and unacknowledged naval vessels that would ferry diplomats and prisoners of war back and forth between the two nations. For now, the brig was acting in a similar fashion as it still carried diplomats with their proposals to and fro. However, it was being sent to Brest this time and, in addition to his four passengers, or five if one counted the corpse which had already been stowed in the hold, she was carrying a black-coated civilian there for some purpose or other on behalf of government.

After wearing his uniform the past few days, Jon found himself back in his bottle-green coat and buff breeches. Sansa was in a lovely blue travelling dress with thin grey stripes along the bodice and skirt with a matching hat. It was still quite early in her pregnancy and the only hint of it this morning was the pallor of her cheeks. Her morning sickness had been very pronounced the past two days.

But as she walked along beside him, slim and tall, while they followed Sophie and Edd down to the harbour, Jon could not find her anything other than radiant. He offered her his arm but soon wrapped his arm about her waist and drew her nearer.

“Captain Snow,” she admonished for this was not quite proper.

“Propriety be damned,” he whispered in her ear.

He had only a few weeks left with his wife. He didn’t mean to waste his time worrying overmuch about whether or not it was suitable to hold her. And staying in close confines with Sophie at the inn and to share a cabin with their daughter in the brig made him hungry for any little bit of intimacy he could share with his wife.

Sansa had accepted his promotion and assignment with perfect grace though he knew she was putting forward a bit of an act for him and Sophie. He loved her for it and hated the necessity of it as well. It would be nearly impossible to leave as it was. But if Sansa had given him emotional scenes of tears and recriminations for leaving her now, he was certain he would never have managed to come to terms with his duty.

She was however concerned about his mission. For now, he was traveling to France as a British civilian and it would be inappropriate to wear his uniform there. But she also knew he hoped to gleam some information in Paris that would help him in his upcoming quest.

Petyr Baelish was somewhere across the water and Jon was charged with finding him and bringing him back to England while ostensibly learning what he could of the new semaphore stations being erected along the northern coast of France. Sansa was supportive of that. She wanted Baelish captured and brought to justice for his crimes against the Crown and her family and Theon. She just didn’t particularly care for the notion of Jon being the one to do it.

“You’re not an intelligence agent, Jon,” she’d argued when they were still at home after his return from London. “Think of Gabriel and what happened to him in Spain when he tried to go and play the spy.”

“That was during a time of war,” he’d replied feebly. Despite the Peace, Jon knew that if he was discovered ashore actively trying to capture a man working on behalf of the French government, things could turn very sticky, very quickly. “And Baelish, though a traitor, is still a British subject. France will have nothing to say of him once he’s caught and brought back here.”

Here at least he was on surer footing. Still, he knew Sansa was worried and rightfully so. He had his own concerns. However, that was what lay ahead for him and for now he was travelling to France with his family for a holiday of sorts.

Sophie chatted happily to Edd about the upcoming voyage as they neared their destination. A great journey she called it. Jon and Edd had grinned at that. It would take less than two days to reach Brest if the wind held true but to Sophie, having never sailed, it was as grand an adventure as if they were sailing to Java.

“The sea! The sea!” his daughter shouted as the harbour came into view. She had seen the harbour before and the harbour was not truly the ocean but Jon smiled at her excitement all the same.

A wherryman rowed them out to the brig and Edd had run up the side as nimble as a cat with Sophie on his back while Jon and the wherryman helped Sansa climb aboard.

The commander of the brig, Mr. Eccleston, greeted the Snows and then turned them over to a subordinate to show them the small cabin they would share while Edd would sling his hammock forward.

Once they reached the cabin, Sansa sat on the swinging cot and commented they would be quite snug in it with a smirk.

“You and Sophie can share the cot,” Jon said. “I’ll sling a hammock here,” he added as he gestured to the ringbolts above their heads.

“I want to sleep in the hammock!” Sophie argued.

_And I want to sleep with your mama but I’ll be more likely to behave with you in the cabin if I don’t share the cot with her._

At Sansa’s request, Jon took his daughter on deck to amuse her as his wife busily…and needlessly…tidied the cabin. Sophie had grown a bit peevish as she was missing her regular meal and Jon supposed Sansa merely wanted a little relief from their daughter’s whining. But, the crew would be busy for a time getting the ship out to sea.

Despite her rumbling tummy, Sophie’s face was soon alight with wonder at all the activity on deck. He had to reign in his daughter’s exuberance when she started excitedly running along the deck and begging her papa to come and see this or that and tell her what everything was. For nearly an hour, he answered every question his bright young girl could come up with until Edd came up saying the lower deck was sitting down to eat and he’d swiped some ship’s biscuit and cheese for the child.

“Come, miss,” Edd said. “I’ve some food for you if you’re hungry.”

“May I go with Edd, Papa?” she asked.

“Of course, my darling,” Jon replied. “Keep her close, Edd. I’m just going to check on Mrs. Snow.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” the seaman grinned as Sophie put her small hand in his callused one and followed him forward. 

Jon wandered back below, inhaling the familiar smells of life aboard; turpentine and pitch, wood and rope with the ever-present aroma of dozens of indifferently washed men, along with the all-pervading smells of the sea…fish, salt and brine.

He was surprised that Sansa had not joined them on deck earlier…until he found her dry heaving most pitiably into the tin basin that served as a chamber pot.

 

* * *

 

From the moment Sansa had set foot in the little boat that carried them out to the ship, she’d felt the stirrings of nausea. She’d tried her best to ignore it and focus on her daughter’s excitement. She’d tried taking deep breaths but that only made things worse. And for the past hour, she’d been doubled over with the duel discomfort of being seasick on top of being in the early stages of pregnancy.

“Sweetheart,” Jon said concernedly as he knelt beside her.

“It’s the babe…or the movement of the ship,” she groaned.

She hated for him to see her like this. She was certain to be the most unbecoming shade of green at present. Her neat hat lay on the cot and her hair had come loose. It was damp with sweat and the cabin smelled of vomit. She’d gotten some sick on her new dress, too.

“I…dear, God…the smells…” she cried as she was overwhelmed once more.

Sansa grunted and heaved though her stomach had long since been voided. Jon took the chamber pot and tossed the contents out the quarter galley before lifting his wife off the deck and helping her to the cot.

“Lie down. I’ll see if I can fetch the surgeon,” he said as he tenderly brushed the hair back out of her face.

“What good will that do, Jon?” she scoffed. “I’m expecting and I’m seasick. There’s nothing he can do about either of those things.”

“Let me fetch him at least. I hate seeing you so ill.” He brought her a cool, damp cloth and wiped her forehead free of sweat before allowing her to wipe her mouth.

“I was ill every morning with Sophie for weeks,” she groused. “I survived it.”

“I…I wasn’t there then,” he said guiltily.

 _You won’t be here this time either_ , she thought dismally.

But she didn’t want to dwell on that now. He was here with her today and would be here with her for the next few weeks. She meant to treasure their time together and not squander it with regrets over him leaving.

She smiled softly at him and decided to humor him. “Alright then, fetch the surgeon if it pleases you.”

 _He’s a very good husband_ , she mused as she lay in the cot and tried to ignore the building return of the nausea. _I just wish he weren’t such a good sailor at times. Did you ever_ _think the same of Papa being a soldier, Mama?_

Sansa stifled a sob at the thoughts of her long-dead mother and other dreary reflections and forced herself to take a slow, deep breath. She had never had trouble sailing before that she could recall and she suspected it was just her conditions effecting her this way now. She’d lived in a terror for a few days when she’d sailed aboard the _Francine_ with Jon during a ferocious storm in the Med. The store ship had smelled every bit as bad below deck as this one and been capering like a wild horse on the waves but she’d not spent her time crouched over a chamber pot then.

Despite being miserably ill at the moment, she was looking forward to this time with Jon and Sophie. Once his uncle’s body was buried near the lands that had once belonged to the Marquis de Targaryen, they would make the journey overland to Paris and join Robb and Talisa there. She was eager to see the French countryside and its people and to see Paris. No matter the differences in their governments, Sansa bore no ill will towards the French people though she was an Englishwoman through and through. And she had been to Spain and Africa and other places with her father. Why shouldn’t she see France?

It seemed unbelievable in a way that a week ago she’d been awaiting Jon’s return from London. So much had happened since then and Sansa would gladly forget the events of last Friday night. The arrival of Viserys Targaryen and the ensuing, short-lived violence had left her shaken. Sophie and Fanny had been abed and thankfully slept through the gunfire but they were curious why Auntie Daenerys cried so much the next few days and how Uncle Gabriel had been injured. The magistrate and his men had peaked their curiosity even more.

Jon returned with the ship’s surgeon soon enough and Sansa tried to rise to greet him. The elderly man smiled at her benevolently though and urged her to stay at ease. Unfortunately, he stank of tobacco and rum which caused her stomach to roil once more. He wore a kind smile as he looked her over. It was clear he could do nothing to help her and he quickly confessed that he had no knowledge of ‘women’s complaints’ and added that the only cure for seasickness was rest and a bland diet until it either faded or the victim returned to dry land again…which was exactly what Sansa had expected.

Jon looked ill-tempered as the man rambled on with his platitudes. It was rather sweet in a way how frustrated he was on her behalf that this man could do nothing to help. But by now, Sansa desperately wanted Mr. Martin gone as she feared she would start heaving again if she had to keep smelling him.

At last, he took his leave and Sansa wished there was a window she could throw open to admit some fresher air.

“I shall have to speak to Eccleston about him,” Jon said once they were alone.

“Whatever for? I told you he couldn’t do anything for me.”

“He was smoking a cigar when I found him in his cabin.”

“I didn’t know it was a sin for a man to smoke,” she said absently as the nausea rose again.

“But it is quite sinful and criminal as well aboard a ship. No one is permitted to smoke anywhere except on deck or perhaps in the galley, especially a ship that carries gunpowder.”

“Oh,” she commented…before she sprang out of her cot to be helplessly ill again.

Jon’s concerns over the surgeon’s smoking seemed to leave him as he held her hair back and gently patted her back. She loved him and he was very sweet but right now she wished he’d go away. She hated being sick and helpless in front of him.

“Go and check on Sophie,” she moaned. “I’ll be alright on my own.”

He wanted to argue but saw the flash of temper in her eye and departed with a bow of his head.

Gratefully, the nausea did fade as the day passed on and by six bells in the afternoon watch Sansa felt like making her way on deck at last. Up here the breeze was refreshing and the air was sweet. She spied Jon sitting on a cheese of wads near the stern with Sophie in his lap pointing up towards the rigging. He was telling their daughter something and from Sophie’s expression it was plain that she was enraptured and eager to learn about the ship.

 _A little sailor in the making,_ Sansa thought with an inward smile. _What of you little one?_ she wondered next as she stroked her belly. _If the wars would go away, could we cros_ s _the seas together and see the world from a deck?_

Sansa stared out at the blue water all around. There was only the faintest blur of haze indicating land to the south.

“That’s Guernsey, ma’am,” Captain Eccleston said politely as he approached. “We’re glad to see you on deck and I hope you are feeling better.”

“I am, sir. Thank you very kindly,” Sansa said with a curtsey.

The officer bowed in return and there was Jon and Sophie at her side.

“Mama,” Sophie said, “come and see the ship with us!”

Sansa smiled down at her daughter who would be five in September. “Of course, little love,” she said as she took her hand and allowed herself to be shown round the ship. “I can remember the first time I was aboard a man-o-war,” she said, recalling when a younger and nervous Mr. Snow had shown her around his ship.

“Was it Papa’s ship?” Sophie asked.

“It was,” Sansa answered as she glanced back at her husband who was following them with a smile upon his face. “He was not a captain then though.”

“Did you fall in love with Mama when she came to your ship, Papa?”

“Oh, I think I started falling in love with your mama the night I met her…but it was when we first sailed together that I knew I was,” Jon answered.

He grasped her hand and kissed it as Sophie giggled at her parents before urging them both to hurry along.

 

* * *

 

 

The evening had passed with no more sickening qualms though Sansa feared a return of her illness come the morning. They were invited to dine with Commander Eccleston in the brig’s cramped gunroom.

Sophie, preferring Edd’s company and a dish of skillygalee with the men forward to any stuffy dinner, had been turned over to Tollett’s keeping for the time being. The seamen were amazingly tolerant of the child. Sansa would swear they all seemed rather fond of her though they’d only been aboard less than twelve hours. She supposed a little girl consumed with enthusiasm for the service and life at sea was a novelty they were enjoying for now.

The seapie served at the commander’s table was palatable though Sansa reflected she would’ve been content with hard tack and salt beef at this point as she had grown rather ravenous.

The conversation was polite if stilted at first between Jon and Eccleston considering they were perfect strangers. And though Jon had been no more than a commander himself until very recently, Sansa was enough of a seaman’s wife to know how much rank mattered to sailors. But Sansa, long used to hosting dinners, sometimes amazingly awkward dinners, for her father from a tender age, did her best to keep a credible flow of talk going amongst the men and, once Jon and the lieutenant discovered they’d sailed with some of the same men, they conversed more easily about old shipmates.

Sansa sipped her glass of wine and took the opportunity to observe the others at table. She was seated at the commander’s right as the sole lady present and on her other side sat Mr. Harrold Hardyng of the Diplomatic service. Jon sat across from her on Eccleston’s left and beside him the surgeon Mr. Martin with the brig’s lone lieutenant seated at the foot of the table.

Mr. Moore, the lieutenant, was painfully shy in the presence of a lady and in awe of his superiors and kept stuffing his mouth to avoid saying more than ‘yes’ or ‘no’ or ‘thank you.’

The surgeon she had met already but as Mr. Martin poured himself glass after glass of wine she decided he was an affable companion, especially when he did not reek of his cigar. Jon had chosen to hold his tongue as far as the man’s smoking in his cabin went.

She turned her attention to the only other civilian in her midst, Mr. Hardyng. He was charming as one would expect of a man in his field. He was also handsome in an easy-going way. He had an air to him that reminded her of Parson Tyrell, an air of someone who was rather pleased with themselves. He was reportedly married and lamented that he spent so much time ferrying between France and England that he saw little of his poor wife.

“I imagine the same came be said of you, Captain Snow?” he asked Jon and Sansa grimaced at the reminder of Jon’s upcoming departure.

“It is an extremely unfortunate part of my profession, sir,” Jon said tightly with his eyes glued to Sansa.

“It gets lonely for us poor fellows away from home, Mrs. Snow,” Mr. Hardyng continued. “But I imagine the same is true of you ladies.”

Sansa didn’t care for the way he said the last part as he seemed to be leering at her. However, she cleared her throat and said, “Yes, Mr. Hardyng. The loneliness is something of a trial but I am proud of my husband all the same.”

“Of course, madam. What wife wouldn’t be proud of our gallant tars?” he asked though Sansa didn’t care for his tone and she could see Jon face growing flushed.

As the wine continued to pass ‘round the table, Sansa pitied Mrs. Hardyng for she discovered Mr. Hardyng possessed a roving eye. She noted the growing ire in her husband’s eye with alarm. It would be best to escape the captain’s table before too long. She took the first chance to claim fatigue and begged they would excuse her.

Mr. Hardyng suggested he could see Mrs. Snow back to her cabin if Captain Snow wished to enjoy some more port and tales of old shipmates with their host.

Jon stood so quickly his chair fell over backwards and his voice was dangerously low and gruff when he told the man that would not be necessary.

“What an ass,” Jon muttered under his breath of Mr. Hardyng as they thanked Commander Eccleston for the meal and bid their fellow guests a good night. “Are you unwell again, my darling?” he asked as they left the gunroom.

“I’m quite well,” she responded with a smile. “I’d simply had enough of company for now.”

“Me, too.”

When they reached their cabin, Sansa was rather sleepy from the heavy meal and long day.

Sophie had got her way with Edd’s help no doubt and was already snoring softly in the hammock from all her day’s adventures. She didn’t even stir when her parents both kissed her brow.

Sansa took down her hair and brushed it out as Jon watched her hungrily. She knew that look. She wished they were alone tonight but in Paris at least they would have their own room. She unbuttoned her dress and slipped it off before lying down.

Jon stripped out of his coat, cravat and breeches and then loosened his hair from its queue before climbing into the cot next to her where she lay in just her shift.

They had never travelled aboard a ship as man and wife. It was quite pleasant to feel her husband pressed up against her and the gentle sway of the hanging cot added to her somnolent state.

Jon contented himself with kissing the back of her neck for a time with one arm around her waist, easing all tension from her body as the cot rocked in time.

“ _Mmmm_ ,” she hummed. “Perhaps sea travel agrees with me after all.”

“Does it? I’m glad to hear it.”

Jon’s hand that was around her waist slipped down lower. She felt her shift being pulled up beneath the blanket.

“Jon,” she whispered, “Sophie is…”

“Asleep. And her mama has had a difficult day.” She could feel his hand on the flesh of her thigh now. “Spread your legs, sweetheart,” he rumbled.

“But…”

Her protest died on her lips as she felt his fingers teasing the hair between her legs. She could feel his hard length against her bottom and suddenly sleep was far from her thoughts.

“Does this have anything to do with Mr. Hardyng’s behaviour at dinner, Captain Snow?”

“Christ, I wanted to punch his face for leering at you.” Jon kissed her neck again and murmured, “But mostly I have missed you, missed holding you and loving you. Spread your legs for me, love,” he prompted again.

She complied and suppressed a groan of longing when his fingers began tracing her pearl and dipping down to slide along her wet folds.

“Be quiet, my darling,” he said as he busied his fingers.

Sansa gripped the edge of the cot with one hand as the other slithered downward to cover his hand. Her hips moved against his hand and the familiar, coiling desire blossomed under his touch. His own hips bucked against her a time or two, driving his erection against her bottom but for the most part he seemed intent on bringing her pleasure.

His other arm slid under her side and his hand began tweaking her nipple through the fabric of her shift. His lips were on her neck and at her ear, kissing, sucking and whispering desperate words of desire.

Things had been strained at home after his return what with his uncle’s death, the magistrate’s brief inquisition and preparing for their journey. And in Portsmouth, Sophie had insisted on sleeping with her mama at the inn. They had both been missing this intimacy.

“Oh, Jon,” she cried out softly as he brought her to her peak with his hands.

Her loins ached and shuddered with it and his breathing was labored in her ear as she floated back down.

She reached back and stroked him through his underthings and found the parting in the fabric to allow a man to pull his cock out at need. Up and down she rubbed him until his panting was too loud to ignore. She arched her back and drove her bottom firmly against him whilst spreading her hips wider in invitation. He hesitated for only a moment before a rustle of movement was heard and she felt him pushing his cock inside of her. The position was a bit awkward initially on the small cot but, once he was inside of her and started to move, she could not complain.

His hand found her pearl again and Sansa moaned softly into her pillow as their bodies moved in time.  When he grunted with his release, she gasped in response with her own pleasure.

Sweet Sophie snored on as Sansa rose to use the chamber pot and then settled back in her husband’s arms, sated and warm and so happy.

“I love you,” he murmured into her hair.

“I love you, too,” she replied as the sleepiness returned.

Sleep claimed her soon enough though she was initially vaguely aware of the sounding of the ship’s bells.

Six and then seven bells passed as she drowsed between wakefulness and sleep.

Midnight passed with no knowledge of it as she slept on and one bell she never heard.

But at two bells when she was still deep, deep down she startled and found she was alone in the cot until her next impression was one of extreme general, incoherent violence.

Jon was shaking her, pulling her bodily out of her cot and shouting “Fire! The ship is on fire! We must get up on deck!”

She could see almost nothing for the smoke filling the cabin already, but snatching up a cloak and sliding into her half-boots, she followed Jon who held Sophie as they fled along the deserted orlop to the forehatch.

The whole deck was aglow with a rosy light reflected from the smoke and the sails. An occasional tongue of flame could be seen above the main hatchway.

Jon shouted something in her ear but she did not understand him. He passed Sophie over before he sprinted off to help the officers with the men. The hoses were spraying water as half-naked men heaved strongly at the pumps. Her husband worked with them. She stood there helplessly in her shift, grasping the enormity of the situation as she clutched her daughter to her bosom.

A fountain of brilliant flame shot up from the cabin skylight. The main and mizzen topsails from all their tarred rigging took fire at once. Blazing pieces fell on the deck, starting other fires as coils of rope and wood tinder-dry all flared with an extraordinary brilliance. And soon, there was a vast omnipresent roar as the main fire took an unconquerable hold.

The men started from the pumps and ran to the side all looking to Commander Eccleston.

“Starboard watch away,” Eccleston cried. “Easy, easy, there. Captain Snow, your family to the blue cutter.”

There was a rush for the bows where the boats had been hauled alongside, not an undisciplined panic-stricken rush, but violent enough for Sansa to receive a shove, stumble and nearly fall with Sophie in her arms.

Before she could fall though, she found herself grasped tightly by firm hands and heard Edd’s strong voice cry, “Make a lane, there!”

She leaned into Edd’s shoulder, wanting desperately to cry and tell him she was afraid and that she needed Jon, as he led her and Sophie to the side. And then, there was Jon beside her once more, guiding her into the boat.

She was shown where to sit by the seamen at the oars and Sophie was passed like a parcel to her. Her daughter’s eyes were wide and fearful but she made not a sound at present. Mr. Hardyng sat beside her, huddled in his cloak and his tear-streaked face crumpled with his terror.

Sansa straightened her back and cooed, “Shush,” to Sophie and him as well in attempt to calm them both. “We’ll be alright.”

“Pull clear ahead,” Commander Eccleston shouted from the side of the ship to the men around her. “Larboard watch away.”

She panicked when she realized Jon was still on deck. She could not bear the thoughts of being separated.

“Edd…” she squeaked, “the captain.”

Edd looked around grimly and hailed the deck, “Come on, sir!”

Her heart was in her mouth when she saw Jon jump aboard at last, the last man to join their boat.

Now the flames roared higher still. There was some confusion and men throwing themselves into the water to reach the other boats. Sansa felt a stab of shame at how little she cared so long as her husband and daughter were beside her.

Jon shoved Mr. Hardyng bodily down the seat alongside and took his place beside her whilst commanding the men to pull. They pulled very fast, away from the burning ship.

“Easy…lay on your oars,” Jon said at last.

The men rested on their oars and gazed back at their ship. The cutter was silent, except for Mr. Hardyng’s nervous chatter and Sophie’s quiet snuffling at her bosom. All thoughts of seasickness had faded despite the heavy swell. Terror had that effect, Sansa supposed.

They gazed and gazed, with never a word, and in half an hour _Archer_ blew up, a vast crimson flash that grew with enormous speed, covering the sky, followed by darkness so complete Sansa wondered if she’d been rendered blind by the flash. All around she could hear though; the sound of timbers, masts and spars plunging from the darkness into the empty sea.

Presently, her eyes picked out light again and she saw flaming bits of debris. She saw the other boats nearby. Commander Eccleston was calling the boats together. Then, there was a rumble of thunder in the distance and she heard Edd and some of the other men’s muttered curses and fervent pleas.

“Will it storm?” she asked Jon.

He didn’t answer but drew her close for an embrace and kissed the top of her head whilst stroking Sophie’s hair.

Sansa leaned into her husband and shut her eyes, wishing it were all a dream. But, long after the last flames had been swallowed by the sea, she could still see the orange image of the explosion whenever she closed her eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Couple of notes: I borrowed the character name Eccleston from Forester's book 'Mr. Midshipman Hornblower' but he has no real tie to that character. I just always liked him in the Horatio Hornblower mini-series and wanted to use the name. Second, the final scene of Sansa waking to the ship on fire and Jon herding her up on deck was heavily influenced by a similar scene in O'Brian's 'The Fortune of War.'
> 
> Thanks very much to those of you that are reading this and an extra big thank you to those of you that take the time to leave me a kind comment :)


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stranded in a boat after the ship they were sailing in to France caught fire and was destroyed, Jon and Sansa face the hazards of the open sea with very little water or food.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah...an update at last. Sorry for the delay. I decided to go another way with Harry then what I'd planned originally. 
> 
> Many of the events of the first half of the chapter are drawn from Patrick O'Brian's 'The Fortune of War.'

 

_August 1802_

_The English Channel, off the coast of France_

 

The blue cutter was 18 feet long, and with twelve men, a woman and a child in the boat, it was horribly crowded and dangerously low in the water.

They were silent and for the most part motionless, squeezed into what little shade they had under the summer sun. Apart from the heat and overcrowding, there were plenty of other concerns: fear, hunger, thirst and sunburn. Of these, sunburn was the most immediate.

The cutter had its proper oars, cordage and mast but its sail had been removed at some point and not replaced. Several of the Archers grumbled over the bosun and his perquisites. Jon wondered how much rum a cutter’s sail could fetch a man but then dismissed the thought as moot.

Most of the men’s shirts, including Jon’s, now formed the small shoulder-of-mutton sail that was to carry them to land. A few of the men had their jackets, including Edd, but most were bare from the waist up. Jon had his uniform coat but he roasted in it by day. It was presently a blanket for Sophie to hide beneath to avoid the searing sun. And, although the seamen’s faces and forearms were tanned beyond the reach of any sun, their backs were not and already a fiery red or purple, quite raw.

Fear had returned the moment their intense relief at escaping the burning ship had left. And, it increased during the blow that separated the boats the very night the _Archer_ took fire. They’d seen nothing of Commander Eccleston or the others in two days. They had faced a series of squalls that cut up such a sea that all but Sansa and Sophie had been told to sit on the weather gunwale to keep the waves out with their close-pressed backs, bailing furiously with their hats all the while.

Sansa had been wretchedly ill during most of the squalls as had Mr. Hardyng. But Jon had no patience for the useless man whereas he had nothing but sympathy for his poor wife. He wished there was more water. She was pitifully wane and her eyes seemed sunken. He fretted for her and the babe growing within her.

For all their concerns, there was not all that much they could do with such light airs and Jon had plenty of time to mentally flog himself over the surgeon and his smoking, certain that he was the cause of the fire and that Jon’s failure to say anything to Eccleston was to blame for the deadly peril his wife and child faced along with all the others.

However, much as Jon was naturally predisposed to berating himself over his mistakes, self-castigation would do them no good at present. And there was always the long, quiet night to spend hating himself.

Overall, the men, while anxious, were tempered with confidence in him. So, at least no one was thinking of foolhardy acts such as a mutiny on their tiny boat.

Jon knew approximately where they were and, although he lacked a chronometer, Captain Mormont had been a stickler about his midshipmen learning celestial navigation. Many a cuff and a blow had he received as a boy when he’d get his constellations confused but he had learnt them by heart in time. He was glad of it now.

“Do you see the brightest star there, Little Lady?” he asked Sophie as night fell again.

“Yes, Papa.”

“That is the North Star and it shall help guide us to France.”

“I’d rather go back to England,” his daughter pouted.

 _Me, too_.

Night mercifully brought an end to the miseries of roasting in the sun. However, even in high summer, the temperature would dip upon the water and soon all would be thoroughly chilled. With Sansa’s cloak wrapped around the three of them, he held his girls close until they’d both stop shivering.

“How long?” Sansa whispered that night once Sophie had fallen asleep.

“Two to three days should see us to France if the wind and seas are kind,” Jon answered.

“No…I mean how long till we’re out of…”

“Shush now and go to sleep,” he said sternly. He gazed deep into her eyes, willing her to understand that he did not wish to rebuke her harshly. She simply couldn’t voice that concern out loud.

Her mouth opened in protest for only a moment before she understood. She nodded and nestled against him, seeking whatever meager sleep she could find.

He could estimate their position with dead reckoning. He could command the men and they would listen…so far. He could harness the wind but he wasn’t its goddamn creator. And, he could not make it rain.

Beneath him on the uncomfortable bench, carefully wedged and covered, stood the mess-kid with the few remaining pints of water. He would serve out a third of a mug at sunrise, together with the third part of biscuit and that would be all, the kid quite empty. There might be dew to lick from the mast and gunwales and to suck from the shirts forming their sail but that would not keep them going very long.

The men knew it…at least the seamen did. But speaking of it would only depress everyone’s spirits, especially in the dark of night.

The next day dawned same as the previous, bright, sunny and hot. The water was served out and Edd gave him a knowing look as he urged Sophie to drink the very last drops from the mug. There were no murmurs in the boat though, save Mr. Hardyng.

“What are we to do now, Captain Snow?” the man asked in an aggrieved tone.

“We shall sail to France, Mr. Hardyng. Perhaps we’ll split a bottle of champagne there when we reach it,” Jon said mildly as the sail was hoisted. The wind was a bit more promising today.

The man gave him a contemptuous snort but said no more.

 _Well, in truth I’d rather not share a bottle with you_.

“Sir?” Edd said. “Some of the lads want to try a line.”

“Of course,” Jon nodded to the men. “Catch us a turtle for our supper,” he joked. It was feeble for certain but the answering smiles pleased him. It was an indication that not all hope was lost.

Two of the seamen had hooks and line and they let it trail over the side as the cutter made its slow progress south-southeast. Catching a fish would be a godsend, even if they were forced to eat it raw. But no fish did they see.

 _Never a fish, nor a turtl_ e, Jon thought despairingly. Why did the ocean seem as bare as the day of Creation?

“Change over,” Jon croaked near sunset, his throat dry as the Sahara.

Four times a day the occupants of the boat moved to different positions to at least allow their limbs some movement. They treated it as a changing of the watch of sorts. Anything resembling the normalcy of life aboard was welcome.

“Papa…” Sophie said with a meaningful glance at the water.

“Again?” he asked. The child nodded and he pulled off his boots. “Come along then.”

He dove into the sea, enjoying the refreshment of the water even if he could not drink it. It was soothing on his peeling back though the salt would be an agony when he climbed back aboard and it began to dry.

Jon gripped the gunwale with the fingertips of one hand as Edd handed Sophie over. She held his other hand and kicked as he’d taught her to tread water whilst answering the call of nature that had prompted this dip. She was only four and not terribly concerned at being unclothed in front of the men but she refused to use the bailer aboard for this.

At least here in the sea, Sophie’s mind was distracted from the hunger that had gnawed at them all since midday when the pitiful remains of biscuit had been handed out.

“I’m still hungry, Papa,” Sophie had said plaintively.

“Shush, darling,” Sansa had cooed and Jon thought he’d rather be burned at the stake or flayed alive than listen to the whimpers of his hungry child.

“Will you teach me to swim, Captain?” she asked cheerfully once she had relieved her bladder.

He pulled her back over to him. “Aye, Little Lady…but not today,” he said. They were all too tired, dehydrated and weak for swimming lessons. “Haul her aboard,” he called to Edd.

Edd stood to pluck the naked, dripping child out of the water. He handed her over to Sansa who wrapped her in her cloak to dry before she would throw the child’s nightshift back on.

Jon climbed aboard after her and turned his attention to his wife. Today, Sansa’s modesty had finally surrendered to comfort and she’d thrown off the cloak she’d been wearing day and night. She was only in her shift that she’d worn to bed the night _Archer_ caught fire. Her hair was down and she had pulled it forward to cover her breasts as the cotton was lightweight. Jon could make out the outline of her nipples and the darker patch of hair that covered her sex and under ordinary circumstances he might have been inclined to shield her from roaming eyes. But at present, he suspected the men aboard were more lustful for a dipper full of water and a bite of weevil-laden bread than his wife’s body.

“I’m so sorry for all this, my love,” he said as he sat down beside her. She leaned towards him but his chest and breeches were soaked. “I’ll wet your shift,” he said. From the smile she gave him, it was clear she didn’t truly care. He put his arms around her, thankful for the comfort of just holding her for a moment.

“Sir,” Edd whispered from where he still stood as his eyes narrowed. “A sail.” He spoke louder as he grew more certain. “A sail, sir! Off the starboard beam!”

No discipline could resist temptation at such a time and as Jon stood so did every other man aboard. The cutter lurched precariously and Jon threw his arms out to maintain his balance as they nearly shipped a sea.

“Sit down, you goddamned lubbers!” he roared.

He glanced nervously at his wife and grimaced to see her wide eyes and Sophie’s. But the men all sat at once, meek as sinners on a Sunday. They had seen all that they longed to see anyway; a ship to the north, topsails up.

“Ready about,” he called.  The distant ship was sailing on the other tack and the sun was going down. It would be a near thing. They’d have to make a dash for it if they had any hopes of being seen. “Out oars. Stretch out! Stretch out!”

They stretched out, the water rushing alongside. A desperate effort as Jon stood at the tiller with Sansa and Sophie at his knees and the men laboured at the oars, their faces contorted in agony and exhaustion. They pulled hearty all the same, except for Mr. Hardyng who was only in the way. But Jon expected no more of him. He was only a landsman after all.

The ship came nearer and he could see men moving about on her deck but no sign did she give of seeing them. Had they no look-out at all?

The ship let fall her topgallants and prepared to gather way.

“Lay on your oars and face about! All hail together. One, two, three-ahoy!” Jon cried.

“Ahoy! Ahoy the ship!” they all shouted in unison.

On and on they cried growing increasingly desperate.

Little good it did them as the ship moved placidly on through the sea, oblivious of the cutter and its occupants. Every second widened the distance until she was no more than a speck on the darkening horizon.

There was silence in the cutter except for the painful gasping of the men who had pulled so hard. Stout, an elderly forecastle man, groaned and clutched at his chest but revived after a time.

“Do not be too downhearted, men,” Jon said, mustering as much optimism as he could manage. “I’m sure you all saw she was carrying a top-light which proves we are in the track of shipping. We’ll turn back south but I’ll lay odds we’ll see another ship tomorrow.”

The men nodded and Jon prayed he’d be proven correct.

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa woke a little after moonrise with hunger cramps. She clutched her belly and held her breath, hoping they would pass. Sophie had woken with the same not even an hour ago, weeping into her mother’s bosom for food, for water, for things Sansa could not give her. There were few actual tears though. They were all too dehydrated for those.

She saw Jon was awake, sitting with the tiller under his knee and the sheet in his hand and staring at them both with an agonized expression marring his handsome face. She wondered if he slept at all. Whenever she awoke in the night, he was always awake and looking to the horizon.

Stout had passed away a few hours ago. Sansa suspected his heart had given out after rowing so hard in that desperate attempt to reach the ship and he’d died not long after. They had not put him over the side. And though no one had spoken yet of eating his body, Sansa knew that was why Jon had said to cover him with a coat for now.

Her empty stomach twisted and churned and cramped at the thought. Could she ever do such a thing? Could she encourage her daughter to do so?

But with her spirit as of yet unbroken, she knew she could if it came to that. The question wasn’t what would she do for the sake of her daughter and unborn child but rather what wouldn’t she do. Thus far, she couldn’t say she’d found an answer and supposed cannibalism or even murder were not beyond her if it meant saving her children.

On the other side of Sophie, Mr. Hardyng was awake and snuffling into his coat again. He had not bothered to put on a stoic front in the face of their earlier disappointment with the ship and had wept openly, much to the consternation and mortification of the seamen. Sansa couldn’t condemn him for it but she could not respect him much either she found.

But Sophie was sleeping at last and Sansa feared Mr. Hardyng and his tears would wake her. She reached over her sleeping daughter and took his hand.

“Mr. Hardyng…please,” she said softly, her voice raspy being as her throat was so dry. “We’re going to be alright.”

She heard Jon shift behind her and knew he’d rather her not comfort the man. Not out of jealousy but rather that he didn’t consider Mr. Hardyng worthy of her efforts.

“We’re all going to die here,” he moaned. “We’re going to die of thirst. We might as well drink the seawater and make an end to it sooner.”

“No…Mr. Hardyng. Remember yourself. You’ll be ashamed of such talk when we’re rescued tomorrow.” _God, please let us be rescued tomorrow_. “What would Mrs. Hardyng think if you were to give up now?”

“She’d be well shot of me,” he said with a sob. “I’m a terrible husband to her. I’ve a mistress in Paris and another in LeHavre.”

“Oh…well…” Sansa began, not quite knowing what to make of his confession.

“It’s why this has happened,” he continued.

“Why what has happened?”

“Why we’re in this situation. I brought it down upon myself with my lecherous ways.”

“Mr. Hardyng,” she said, vexed by the man’s self-centered thoughts, “I’m quite certain that not all of us are to pay with our lives for _your_ sins. My daughter is an innocent child. Do you think you’re to blame for…”

“I wanted a cigar after supper.”

Sansa’s brow furrowed, perplexed by the sudden change of topic until she caught his meaning. A chill raced down her spine. Mr. Hardyng clutched her hand more tightly. Suddenly, she very much wanted her hand back.

“Mr. Martin said Eccleston had chastised him more than once for enjoying his favorite indulgence in the privacy of his cabin from time to time but he saw no harm in it. I thought perhaps I could join him.”

Sansa glanced over her shoulder where Jon was seated. His eyes were turned away but she could see the way his jaw was clenched and the way his hands gripped the tiller even in the feeble moonlight.

“Mr. Hardyng…did you…”

“Never mind,” Mr. Hardyng interrupted before Sansa could finish her question. “Doesn’t matter,” he said with a shake of his head…a guilty shake of his head.

Sansa removed her hand from his and gazed up at the stars winking above. She remembered Jon’s anger over the surgeon smoking aboard and, knowing her husband as well as she did, she knew he had been berating himself over it…as though he could’ve stopped an obviously pig-headed man who he held no direct authority over from doing whatever he pleased.

Then, she recalled why they had even been aboard _Archer_ to begin with instead of already in Paris with Robb and Talisa, to return the body of Jon’s uncle to France after Gabriel had shot and killed that madman.

_An uncle we never would’ve met if I had not pushed him to reply to his aunt’s letter._

So many little decisions in life that lead to other decisions that lead to the unforeseen. It made her head hurt.

Jon reached down and touched her shoulder a few minutes later, drawing her from her unhappy reflections.

He was looking to the southwest and she saw the flash of white when he smiled, the first genuine smile she’d seen since the fire.

“We’re in for a ducking.”

She looked to where he pointed and noticed that there were no stars visible in that direction. The sky was black and there were a few flashes of lightning visible far off on the horizon.

“A storm?” she asked, paralyzed by fear.

Dying of thirst would likely be worse than drowning in a storm but that spark of life that still beat strongly within her wanted to fight for her last breath, not huddle helplessly as their small boat was tossed and turned at the will of the sea.

“Just rain,” her husband said soothingly.

Rain…fresh water.

“How soon?”

“Soon,” he said before he raised his voice to croak, “All hands!”

Sansa roused Sophie as the first few drops fell. Soon it was hissing down all around them, being collected in the mess kid, bailer and hats, anything that could hold water.

Sansa tilted her head back and opened her mouth wide, encouraging the child to do the same as the water poured so hard they had to duck their heads and cover their nose and mouths at times to draw breath. No wine could taste sweeter.

Long after their meager receptacles were filled, the rain continued till they were forced to even bail some of the precious liquid out of the bottom of the boat. It was not enough to take away hunger but no one was parched now at least. Their empty bellies still ached but their tremendous thirst was slaked.

“Lie down, sweetheart,” Jon said when the rain turned to a drizzle.

She was so tired. Sophie was already curled up against her. She laid her head upon Jon’s knee. Sansa drifted off again. Her last image was of Jon’s hand at its usual position on the tiller. He reminded her of some guardian or watchman attending his post but so still he might have been carved out of stone.

Dawn came and the sun peaked above the eastern horizon like a flattened lemon. Not a cloud in sight and a pure blue sky promised another day of sun.

The last of the mist cleared and to the southeast, quite near, were two vessels.

Sansa turned to her husband, hoping it was not just a mirage.

“Fishermen,” Jon said with a satisfied smile as he directed the men and turned the cutter to close them.

“Sir?” Edd queried with a meaningful look at Stout’s body. She knew to seamen it was bad luck to keep a corpse aboard and his body was already swelling. Sansa blanched when she noticed that part of his thigh had been cut into during the night. She would have to make certain Sophie did not see. “Shall we slip him over the side?”

“No,” Jon said. “Cover him decent and we’ll see him given a proper send-off once we’re aboard.”

The occupants of the boat grew conscious of their appearance. Men that had them put on their jackets and all wiped at their faces or smoothed down their hair. Sansa put her cloak back on.

“Quel bateau est-ce?” a voice called from the nearer boat.

“Marins en détresse,” Jon replied. “Sansa…” he prompted.

His French did not match hers and soon Sansa was giving the tale of how they came to be stranded at sea in an open boat, receiving many sympathetic looks from the French fishermen as she pled for them to save her children and clasped her belly with a meaningful look.

The Royal Navy did not make a habit of pestering French fishermen during the war though. They often found them a source of information when they would buy their fresh catch to break up the monotony of salt beef and salt pork. But Sansa did not know it and she feared they might turn and sail away.

Sooner than she could believe, they had been plucked from their boat and brought aboard the larger of the two ships. She supposed it was a ship but perhaps Jon would say otherwise. Regardless, she was very grateful to them.

She and Sophie were swept away to the captain’s small cabin while Jon saw to his men’s accommodations. A young sailor brought them fish stew, fresh bread and small beer.

“I’m sorry there is no milk, Madame,” the man said in French with a nod towards Sophie.

“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa assured him with a warm smile. She feared she was making quite a spectacle of herself as she wiped the bowl with the last of her bread. Such hunger made table manners scarce. Sophie had tipped her bowl up and was licking it clean, grunting like a piglet. “Could I beg another bowl for my daughter? We are exceedingly grateful for your kindness and forever in your debt for rescuing us.”

The man smiled and she caught his eyes drifting downwards for a moment. She’d removed her cloak in her eagerness to tuck in to her meal. When she crossed her arms over her breasts in embarrassment, the fisherman flushed scarlet and fled the cabin saying he would bring more stew and bread and some clothes for her.

She was mortified, certainly indecent in only her shift and she figured she must look a fright. She felt a fright honestly. Her belly was shrunken from days of hunger. Her face was likely pinched from fear and hardship. Her hair was lank from sweat and rain with no brush or fresh water for washing. She sighed and told herself such things didn’t matter at present any more than table manners.

Jon appeared to join them a few minutes later with the ship’s captain at his side. He gazed longingly at their empty bowls.

“They are bringing more,” she said.

He nodded and said, “The captain speaks no English. I thought you could assist me in explaining our desire to go to France.”

“Of course,” Sansa said and turned to the captain to convey her husband’s words as Jon demolished his own bowl of stew. 

Afterwards, the three of them slept. Sansa and Sophie in the captain’s cot and Jon in a hammock. The rest of the morning passed away and most of the afternoon before they awoke hungry yet again. The kind-hearted captain had a seapie sent to them. The three of them devoured it before Jon went to check on the Archers and Edd.

“And I must have a word with Mr. Hardyng as well,” he said with a dark look.

“Jon…”

He smiled and kissed her forehead. “I’ll see you later.”

That evening, Sansa stood on deck in seamen’s clothes. She’d washed and plaited her hair into a neat braid. The clothes must’ve belonged to a boy or younger man.  They fit snuggly but well enough. She’d never worn breeches before in her life but she thought they were rather comfortable.

Sophie was dressed as a boy and said it would make climbing easier and asked if she could wear them when they were home again. Sansa passed Sophie bits of biscuit to avoid answering. An insatiable hunger such as they had known would not be cured with one or two meals. Sophie had been grazing on and off throughout the day.

As the sun set, the men gathered on deck to see Stout buried.

Mr. Hardyng stood off to the side of their group with his head bowed, sporting a freshly blackened eye and swollen jaw. Considering setting fire to a ship was a criminal act that a man could be hung for, she thought he’d gotten off very lightly and said nothing.

Jon paid him no more attention than he would a cockroach as he joined the others. He had procured a shirt and put his uniform coat back on. He’d also pulled his hair back into a queue. He looked quite dashing to Sansa’s eyes and one would not think he’d been a castaway a mere twelve hours ago to look at him…unless one happened to notice the filthy state of his breeches.

He had secured a bible from somewhere and said the expected words over the body of Seamen Stout before his shipmates slid his body over the side wrapped up in some spare sail.

When dawn came again, the coast of France was fully in view and the port of Brest beckoned them.

“I rather like you in those breeches and shirt, Mrs. Snow,” Jon said as he came up behind and wrapped his arms around her waist. “How are you feeling?”

She put her hands on top of his contentedly and sighed. “Better now.” It was true. Other than the normal queasiness of early pregnancy, she was feeling much better after a good night’s sleep and plenty of food and fresh water. “The night before last I wondered if I would live to ever lay eyes on France.”

“Yet, here we are and now you have. May we go home now, sweetheart?”

She laughed at his jesting. “Our trip has already been cut short, Captain Snow.” She felt his lips on her neck, softly grazing her tender flesh and stirring her blood. “Jon…”

“Where’s Sophie?” her rumbled in her ear.

“With Edd. Learning how to clean and gut fish of all things.” Her husband’s hands traced up her sides and he nuzzled into her neck some more. “Jon…the sailors,” she protested.

“I don’t think the Frenchmen will mind me holding my wife. In fact, I think they approve,” he said in a husky tone in her ear.

Sansa’s eyes fluttered closed and she softened into him. There was something to be said for knowing one could’ve died. It made life and all its possibilities so much more glorious.

“Take me below, Captain,” she whispered. Desire was already making her wet for him.

“With pleasure.”

Jon guided her down the hatchway to the cabin that had been given over to them. The cot would do well enough.

In less than a minute and wearing only the shirt, she straddled her husband who had merely unfastened his breeches to let his cock spring free. She sank down to envelope him as she nuzzled into his neck now and nibbled at his ear.

“Our trip has been memorable thus far…Sansa,” he groaned happily.

“And we’ve not even set foot in France yet…oh, Jon…” she moaned as he gripped her bottom and started thrusting.

“I can’t… _unnn_ …wait to see what… _Christ_ …awaits us there.”

She nodded and he bit his lip, his dark brown eyes boring into hers intently. It did not take long to bring them to their peak and, as she shuddered and he panted afterwards, she kissed his brow.

“Jon, I cannot adequately express how good it is to be alive, my love,” she sighed.

“Nor I, my darling girl,” he said before kissing her passionately once more. “But I think that came pretty close,” he chuckled.

She had to agree.

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been three and a half months and I am so sorry. As some of you know, in a fit of spring desktop cleaning, I inadvertently trashed my outline and notes for this fic back in April. It left me quite down for a time and uninspired but I have finally managed to get somewhat back on course.
> 
> This is a shorter chapter than I normally post but I wanted to get something going again for those of you who are still following this story. I'll try not to take 3 months to update again!!
> 
> Oh, and I'm sorry if my French is inaccurate as I was using Google Translator :)

 

_Paris, France_

 

Arriving in Paris at last, the Snows found the Starks anxiously awaiting their arrival at the home of Talisa’s friends. The young cousins embraced happily and were soon up to their usual antics as Robb interrogated his sister and brother-in-law over the events aboard the _Archer_ and afterwards.

Jon admired how easily Sansa deflected Robb and Talisa’s questions and concerns. “There’s no need to make such a to-do over the matter. We’re here and perfectly fine now,” she said.

_As though a near death experience was a trifling affair. Oh, well. If they want a harrowing tale of being stranded at sea, I’m sure Edd would be happy to oblige._

He admired her spirit but shot her a pointed look from across the room. He fully intended for her to see a physician as soon as possible to check on her pregnancy after all they’d endured. She smiled softly and nodded in return.

She took the tea Talisa had prepared for her and subtly adjusted her gown. It was a simple frock, a fetching shade of green that complimented her red hair and ivory skin nicely, which had been kindly given to her by the fisherman’s wife when they’d reached Brest. At the time, Sansa had been overcome with gratitude to have anything to wear and Jon would’ve happily handed over three times its worth to express his own appreciation…if he’d had any money to hand over.

Unfortunately, all the money they’d taken with them from England sat at the bottom of the Channel. He knew he’d be able to draw funds in Paris but they’d had no money in Brest and been reliant on the kindness of the Frenchmen who had rescued them, leaving him doubly and triply indebted to the men who saved not only his family’s lives but seen to it that they could reach their destination by coach instead of on foot. Jon had taken careful notes of all their addresses and sworn to repay them all.

His wife was lovely in her green dress and Jon was pleased by the simplicity of it, far fewer buttons and laces to fuss with at night. However, when he saw Sansa’s distress over her appearance as they arrived in the fashionable section of Paris where they were staying for the next several days, he promised he would take her shopping as soon as possible.

Sophie was still dressed as a boy. He suspected they would have difficulty getting her in a dress again after listening to her describe to Fanny how much easier it was to climb in breeches.

“Sansa,” Talisa said, “I’ve managed to secure us some seats for the opera Friday evening. The maids here are very good with Fanny and one speaks English if you wouldn’t mind leaving Sophie for an evening away.”

“Oh, the opera! I should love to see a performance!” Sansa said. But then she glanced down at her dress. “I’m not sure I can…”

“We’d love to go,” Jon said. “Perhaps you can take my wife to the dressmaker tomorrow for something suitable to wear.” His wife would not be shamed out of seeing something she wanted to see whilst they were here simply because she had no fancy dress. “Tomorrow, we’ll visit the bank first and then you and Talisa can surely visit the dressmaker.”

He heard Edd’s huff from where he’d come into the room and smiled to himself. His own apparel was not in the best of shape from their adventures but it would pass in a darkened opera house. And Edd would likely be scrubbing at it with mineral water and complaining all the while tonight.

“Yes, Edd?”

“A letter for you, sir.”

 

* * *

 

 

Sansa saw the shift in Jon’s expression as soon as he broke the seal of his letter. He had received some sort of important information, she was certain. But, he said nothing as they continued their chatter with Robb and Talisa. If it were a letter from someone at home or one of his uncles, he would likely have said as much in the presence of the others. She was sure he’d tell her of it when they were alone though.

However, when Talisa brought up plans for the pair of them to visit the dressmaker together, he spoke up.

“I’ll go with you.”

“To the dressmakers?” Robb asked, an incredulous grin lighting up his face.

“Yes, to the dressmakers. I’ll escort our wives there,” he said before lifting his glass of wine and signaling that the matter was not open for discussion.

Sansa chewed thoughtfully at her bottom lip and eagerly awaited an opportunity to retire for the night.

“Alright then,” Sansa said once Sophie was tucked in next to her cousin and their bedroom door was closed. “What is all this about?”

Jon tugged the ribbon out of his queue and then pulled off his coat and cravat. He scowled and looked away. “Can’t I escort you to the dressmaker’s shop, Mrs. Snow?”

“Jon…”

“The letter was from Dr. Seaworth,” he said, meeting her eyes once more. “Baelish is in Paris.”

Sansa felt as though the wind had been knocked from her. She sat heavily down on the edge of the bed. “He’s here? But I thought he was in Cherbourg.”

“He was. But it’s not so far from Cherbourg to Paris as it is from Brest.” She shivered. He was just one little man but he could cast a long shadow. Jon drew nearer, placing a hand on her waist and another at the back of her neck. “I want to believe that this is purely a coincidence but my instincts say differently. I would like to sail you and Sophie back home tomorrow but I realize that is not feasible. So, we will stay here as planned…but I don’t want you going out alone while we’re here. Understood?” She nodded and he embraced her tightly. “You and Sophie are the dearest things in all the world to me. I must keep you safe.”

“And what of yourself? Am I not allowed to worry for your safety?”

“I don’t plan on doing anything foolish.”

“Robb should know of this. Any of us could be at risk.”

“He will. I’ll tell him early tomorrow. I don’t wish to distress our hosts unnecessarily. I’ll see what Robb thinks of telling them.”

He let go of her and turned away but something was niggling at her. “Jon? Was that all Dr. Seaworth said?”

Jon scrubbed at the back of his neck. He had concealed something…or attempted to.

“No. He also said that Baelish has made a new friend, another traitor to the Crown who has found some sympathetic friends here in Paris. His name is Roose Bolton.”

“And…”

“And he said it had been suggested in the committee that perhaps I could discreetly ask about for any information regarding…”

“No. No!” she said emphatically.

“I told you I don’t plan on doing anything foolish. I am no agent. I’ve never been to Paris before now. My French is abysmal at best. It would be foolhardy indeed for me to play the spy here especially with my family with me. Davos said that the person who suggested it was great fool.” He took her hands in his. “I swear I’ll do nothing of the sort, alright?”

“Alright,” she sighed gratefully. 

She was still worried but reassured by his words.  And, Paris was a large city.  Surely, the chances of running across Mr. Baelish here were not too great no longer than they were staying.

The next morning after breakfast with the girls, their hosts graciously lent their barouche for Jon, Talisa and herself to travel in style about Paris.

Sansa tugged at the green dress that was a bit too short in the skirt and a bit too loose in the bust as Talisa prattled away pointing out various places she’d been or points of interest. She would be glad to have something new to wear though her husband seemed quite fond of her in green.

 _Perhaps I’ll find another green dress, just one that actually fits me and is more suitable for our company_.

He was staring at her from where he sat across from the ladies with his back to the driver. His dark eyes were hooded, filled with mischief. She gave him a pointed look. Her husband was rather fond of taking liberties with his wife in closed carriages but he could not do so with Talisa right here, nor in an open barouche where all of Paris might see them. He smiled wolfishly at her pointed look. But whatever debauchery he was imagining was extinguished when Talisa spoke.

“Oh Sansa. I meant to tell you. I spoke to Madame Bernard this morning of your condition. There’s a reputable accoucheur she suggested. Would you wish to meet with him?”

Sansa was inclined to refuse as they would not be here so many days and she felt perfectly well despite their ordeal. But, she saw Jon’s worried glance towards her belly and agreed.

The bank took twice as long as expected but at least they were in funds again. Then, Talisa directed the driver to the dressmaker’s.

Two hours later, her husband had embarrassed her thoroughly by buying her not one but three gowns, all currently the height of French fashion which would stand out like a sore thumb in Petersfield when they returned home. He’d also insisted on purchasing two bolts of fabric she had admired; one which she hoped to use to make a morning gown for herself and one which she thought could be used for new clothes for Sophie and perhaps something for the baby.

“You have spoiled me,” she declared as servants came to unburden them of their packages when they returned to the Bernard’s.

“Let me. I have had so little time to do just that.”

She wound her hands around his neck to hide her frown and savor the feel of him holding her. Their time together was fleeting, she knew. They’d return to England soon and then he would be at sea. She hoped he would be home for the birth this time at least but knew it was likely a slim hope.

If only Baelish could be captured. She knew that was the underlying aim of his mission. Observing the coastline’s state of readiness and the building of semaphore stations could be accomplished in a couple of weeks. Even if the admiralty wanted regular reports, it would be considered aggressive behavior in time of peace for _Jonquil_ to constantly be loitering along their coast. They could cruise for a week or so and then return to England with opportunities for leave or for her to go down to Portsmouth to see him. At least, she thought that could be possible.

But with Baelish still wanted and Jon so personally invested in seeing him caught, she knew he could be gone for months at a time.

When Friday evening came, Sansa dressed for the opera choosing her new emerald gown made of the finest taffeta. Her breasts had swelled slightly with her pregnancy and the gown fit her like a glove. She feared it would be considered scandalous at home but for Paris it was acceptable for a married woman.  And, she’d immediately noted the way the gown’s décolleté made Jon’s eyes darken. It may have swayed her decision to purchase it despite its impracticality.

They kissed Sophie goodnight and then rode with Robb and Talisa to their destination. The opera house was packed and Sansa was as delighted by the assortment of lovely gowns and various uniforms from across Europe along with the smiling faces she saw as she was about the upcoming performance. She held up her glass to view the crowd, completely ignoring the conversation of her companions, until the lights dimmed and the performance began.

However, mid-way through the first act, she felt a familiar and unwelcome clenching in her stomach as a wave of nausea passed through her. Why tonight? She’d not been ill like this since they’d set sail on _Archer_ but there was no predicting these things and the heavy meal they’d enjoyed before leaving for the opera was likely not helping.

“Are you unwell, sweetheart?” Jon asked solicitously when she rose slowly and made her way past him.

“A passing qualm, I believe. Oh, don’t trouble yourself,” she added when Talisa started to join her. “I’ll retire for a few minutes and return shortly.”

She exited the box, praying fervently she wouldn’t start retching and asked the way to the ladies’ retiring room. It was on the first floor and down a hallway that was quite deserted this early in the performance. Sansa was relieved. If she was going to be ill, she’d prefer to have a bit of privacy.

Once there, she loosened her laces and took a few deep breaths, cursing herself for allowing fashion to come before good sense. The nausea passed thankfully within a few minutes. She hoped in a couple of weeks to be past that phase of her pregnancy altogether.

A lady came in to join her and Sansa sat up, beginning to fuss with her laces. The woman was well dressed but something about the amount of rouge on her cheeks and her posture made Sansa wonder if she belonged to the demi-monde of Paris society.

“Bonsoir, madame,” the woman said politely.

“Bonsoir,” Sansa replied. She chastised herself for her unkind thoughts. The woman was being polite. There was no need to cast aspersions upon a stranger based on the amount of make-up she wore or how she stood.

“Puis-je vous aider?” (May I help you?)

“Merci beaucoup, madame. Si ce ne serait pas un problème, je l'apprécierais.” (Thank you very much. If it would be no trouble, I would appreciate it.)

“Es-tu anglais?” (Are you English?)

“Oui. I am.”

“Oh, what a delightful coincidence!” the woman cried, holding out her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you. My name is Alysanne. I’m from Surrey and came over to visit some old friends.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alysanne. I’m Sansa Snow. I live in Petersfield,” Sansa said, shaking her hand.

“Sansa…that’s a very pretty name. Are you attending the theater with friends?”

“No, I'm here with my husband, brother and sister-in-law.”

The two women fell into a companionable discussion as Alysanne kindly helped Sansa lace back up again. They made arrangements to meet the following day and Sansa hoped Jon would not mind her making plans with a new acquaintance considering his worries.

They were exiting the retiring room when Sansa saw two large men standing in the deserted hallway now. But she ceased looking at them when she noticed the third man, a smaller man. He was dressed in a dark crimson coat. His hair was greyer than she remembered but he still bore a pointed moustache and beard. She would know those grey-green eyes anywhere.

Sansa started to recoil as she heard Alysanne say, “There you go, gents. Can I get my fee?”

“See to our fair lady’s fee, Lothor,” Petyr Baelish said. Sansa opened her mouth to scream when one of the two men clamped a beefy hand over her mouth and grasped her by the wrist with the other. “What a surprise to see you here in Paris, Mrs. Snow. We have some catching up to do, I believe.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, yeah...and I left you with a cliffhanger. *hangs head* Sorry for the third time...*hides behind hands*


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three notes: 
> 
> TW-There's violence in this chapter.
> 
> I think there was a question last chapter about this in comments but I'll put it here. An accoucheur was a male midwife and commonly used for pregnancy/childbirth issues during this period. 
> 
> And, during this time period, surgeons were not considered on the same level as other physicians and generally called Mister (or Monsieur) rather than Doctor. Surgery was rather crude during this time and there were some who considered them more on par with butchers.

 

If anyone had suggested a wager, Petyr would’ve placed odds that he’d merely be spending his evening enjoying the opera but it appeared that Bolton’s information had been accurate after all. He could not believe his eyes when he spied her sitting in the opera house, gazing serenely at the crowd below her as beautiful as any queen.

_Cat._

No, not Cat. It was her daughter…Sansa.

He had slowly shaken his head and borrowed his companion’s glasses to discreetly observe her. She was resplendent in her scarlet gown. There was a tantalizing amount of cleavage on display, far more than he’d ever seen when she’d been staying with him and Lysa.

Petyr nearly choked at the memory of his dead wife. She’d been fond of low-cut dresses but her ‘natural allurements’ had not kept him from lusting after her niece even when Sansa had been wearing far more modest gowns. If the two women were placed side by side now, no man would look at Lysa twice. Sometimes, he wished he’d never looked at Lysa twice. But she was dead and gone now. He had killed her after all.

His lips pulled back into a sneer as he observed the man beside her. They had never met but the Royal Navy coat made Petyr certain in an instant that he was looking at none other than Captain Jon Snow, Sansa’s husband.

It was appropriate perhaps how much he remined Petyr of Sir Eddard Stark who had wed his Cat, taking away the only woman he’d ever loved. A man who’d left her waiting at home whilst he was off playing soldier, who’d fathered six children on her and then who’d caused her death by fathering yet another. How he hated Ned Stark.

And this sailor who’d married Sansa was no different. Some jumped up bastard who’d taken her virtue and forced her into a marriage.

He’d leaned over to whisper something in her ear and she’d batted him away, so intent on beholding the crowd. He’d only smiled at her like a besotted fool and returned to his discussion with their companions.

Petyr knew he’d achieved the rank of post-captain recently after Roose had received his latest communique from their homeland. In it they had also learned of Captain Snow’s mission in the _Jonquil_. The observation of the French coastline was a cover for his true purpose…to hunt down one Petyr Baelish. Years had passed but treason was something Government was rather slow to forgive and forget. And he knew Captain Snow probably held a personal grudge.

_I didn’t push her down the stairs though. That was Lysa, my silly wife._

He had conspired to steal from them though. Apparently, Jon Snow was slow to forgive and forget as well.

Though Roose was shrewd, Petyr trusted him no more than Roose trusted him. But Roose still had a friend with connections to the Admiralty which had its advantages. Petyr regretted his star among the newest regime had lost its luster and hoped that by bringing Bolton into the fold he might regain some respect. His gaming debts had mounted. Luck seemed to have turned against him since Lysa’s death.

But why on Earth had he brought _her_ to Paris?

He never would have expected this honorable fool to seek him out whilst Sansa was with him. When word had made its way around town of the Snows and Starks visiting Madame and Monsieur Bernard, he had hardly dared believe it was really them. But here they were…and attending the opera on this Friday evening just as the gossips had said.

Had Snow known he was going to be in attendance as well?

He looked up at that face, trying to discern if there was more there than met the eye. But if the captain was there to observe him, he was making a complete hash of it. He couldn’t keep his eyes off his wife from what Petyr could tell. It was very much what he would have expect based on the letters he’d intercepted that the lovesick fool had sent Sansa when she was staying with Lysa. He did not seem a very cunning opponent. At sea perhaps but here in Paris and when it came to intelligence work, Petyr decided Jon Snow was dangerously out of his depth. Perhaps fatally so.

_Well, you’ve found me, Captain. And what do you plan to do about it? Better yet…what will I do?_

He’d only meant to observe them but ‘always keep them guessing’ was his preferred philosophy in life. There was little time for Petyr to plan anything but he was a resourceful man. And sometimes, taking the offensive unexpectedly beat waiting to defend against your enemy’s move. He’d rather raid the hen house than be the fox avoiding the hound.

He gave the courtesan at his side instructions to watch the lovely red head and the man with her in the box above and sought out the bruisers he’d hired to watch his back on the streets of Paris.

When Mrs. Snow left the relative safety of her companions and sought out the ladies’ retiring room, his companion gave him notice of it and a trap was set. This hen would be his before the hound even knew she was missing.

 

* * *

 

 

Jon shifted uncomfortably in his seat as the soprano warbled on. He knew his wife would be enjoying the performance but he found it rather tedious. He’d rather hear Sophie sing a shanty or two with Old Selmy at home.

Talisa had tears upon her cheeks. The opera was in Italian and no doubt moving to his sister-in-law but Jon hadn’t a bloody clue what was happening.

_Tragic romance, lamenting her lover’s death or some such thing, I suppose._

His gaze lingered on his wife’s empty seat in the low lighting as the song went on. Shouldn’t she be back by now? He couldn’t very well go seek her out, could he? But he couldn’t bring himself to interrupt Talisa’s revelry by asking her to go and check on Sansa.

 _Bugger it all, I’m going_ , he decided after a solid ten minutes had passed. His wife would likely be horrified but he wished to know she was alright.

He rose and indicated he was going for a bit of air. Robb nodded, a bemused smirk on his face. Talisa didn’t even notice.

_I could certainly use some fresh air. No wonder Sansa started to feel nauseated._

The house was packed with indifferently washed bodies on the summer’s eve. No amount of perfume could cover it all though the Lord knew some had tried. It reminded Jon of the lower deck with the hatches battened down during rough weather and the human fug that would linger in the nostrils, not dissimilar from a pig sty.

He descended the stair and asked the porter, in the best French he could muster, where the ladies’ retiring room was located. His cheeks grew hot at the man’s offended glare.

But before he could stammer out an explanation, he heard a commotion occurring nearby.

Instinct led his feet towards the source of the noise with the porter at his heels. Down a long and narrow hall were two men headed towards a door at the far end with a woman being drug between, a woman who was unmistakable even from behind to Jon’s sharp eyes.

Years of practicing for every conceivable emergency at sea and warfare had honed his reactions as intuition told him all he needed to know. His wife was being abducted. Why did not matter at the moment. He hurled himself forward, only regretting for a split second the absence of his sword, as a battle cry tore from his throat. The men, though large, were startled by the unexpected presence of another.

And Sansa, whose struggles had grown sluggish, heard him. Her head turned, her bright blue eyes flashing with a mixture of fear and hope when she saw him. She immediately renewed her efforts to escape.

Biting down hard on the hand covering her mouth, she managed to tear free and shriek, “Aidez moi! Les canailles m’accostent, monsier! S'il vous plaît, aidez!”

Whatever she had said, Jon knew it was for the benefit of the porter behind him. The man immediately began to shout for aid from his associates.

But all further observations ceased as one man threw Sansa over his shoulder and the other man turned to face Jon. It did nothing to slow him.

His eyes alight with rage, he bore down on his first adversary as keenly as he’d drive his ship in chase of a prize. The man pulled a knife from his pocket but he was too slow by half. His zeal to escape was no match for the fury of his pursuer.

Jon ignored the bite of the blade at his shoulder. He paid it no more mind than he would a bee sting as he slammed bodily into the man, throwing him against the wall and knocking the wind from him. The knife clattered to the ground and Jon stooped to pick it up. A primal desire to drive it deep into the man’s belly was strong but he remained focused on his objective and turned his pursuit towards what mattered.

He tore through the open door at the end of the hall and saw it led to an alleyway. A coach waited at the end of the it. He had to hurry. If her assailant managed to get her into that coach and it pulled away before he could catch it…

His breath grew short at the thought and he cleared his mind of the fear that would unman him.

A figure loomed beside the coach, far smaller than the man carrying Sansa. And speaking of the brute, he was flagging. His instantaneous assessment when he’d first spied him told Jon he was fit but well into his middle years. Carrying a grown woman was not a hardship perhaps even as she struggled but fleeing with her while being pursued was.

Jon was closing the distance but they were drawing nearer to the coach as well. The smaller man shouted something at them and climbed into the carriage. He was not prepared to offer the larger man any physical assistance it would appear.

Behind him, Jon could hear more footsteps. The porter had followed and was bringing help.

Ignoring the tearing pain in his lungs from his headlong flight, he sought one final burst of speed and was rewarded. His fingers reached out for the man’s coat but instead clasped his wife’s outstretched hand. The jerking motion caused the man to lose his balance and he and Sansa both crashed to the ground. Without pause, she scrambled backwards away from them like a crab.

Jon lost all control then as he landed on top of his wife’s would-be abductor. The knife in his hand rose and fell without pause. At one point, he thought the man may have kicked him as he felt a blow near his hip but that seemed all wrong. He was on top and the man had stopped moving a while ago.

“Jon!” his wife screamed as the coach and its occupant fled.

He was shaken to his marrow when he raised his eyes to find those pure blue ones staring down at him in horror. His hand were covered in blood. He felt hands pulling him away from the body, pulling him roughly to his feet as a barrage of angry French greeted him.

The battle lust left him as quickly as it had come and he felt only fatigue. There was a burning in his side but that did not matter. She was safe. He was dimly aware of Sansa holding onto him, weeping and murmuring in his ear. He wished to comfort her but things were growing fuzzy. The name Baelish registered but only faintly.

He heard Robb’s commanding voice soon after and Sansa speaking, a rapid tide of French, to the strangers that surrounded them.

Robb took him by the arm at last and said, “Come now, brother. Here is too much blood altogether. We must see to your wounds.”

He looked down at where Robb was probing at his side. He had not even heard the pistol shot.

 

* * *

 

 

“Where is Papa? I wish to see Papa!” Sansa heard Sophie wail outside the bedroom door. Her heart ached over her daughter’s anguish. She wished the noises of the men carrying Jon in had not woken her.

“Shush, my dear,” Talisa replied. “Your mama is taking care of him.”

“Madame…s'il vous plaît,” the surgeon instructed, drawing her back to her task. She lifted the lantern higher to allow the man more light for his grim work. She watched the extractor enter the wound above Jon’s hip.

Edd was acting as sponger and Robb stood behind the surgeon, prepared to pass any of the grisly instruments Monsieur Thomas might require.

She pointedly ignored Robb’s pleading expression and observed the surgeon’s actions as coolly as she could manage. He had dared to try and keep her from the room. _“I helped_ _Talisa birth your daughter as well as giving birth to my own. I’d wager I’ve seen as much blood as you, Major,”_ she had said scathingly to her brother. He had ceased to vocalize his concerns over her ‘womanly sensibilities’ at least.

The shot needed to be removed but, just as much, any cloth from Jon’s clothing carried in with it needed to come out as well. Otherwise, the wound might fester.

Her husband’s face was contorted from his efforts to contain his agony as the probe went deeper, the blood running anew from the wound. Bare chested, he was covered with sweat. His hands gripped the pillow under his head as he hissed between clenched teeth. The surgeon had instructed Robb to hold him down if he moved his hands. He had not so far.

Jon’s dark brown eyes were unfocused from the pain and the laudanum the surgeon had administered. She wished to tell him to scream if he liked but he likely thought it his duty to maintain a certain stoicism. Plus, what would Sophie think if she heard her father crying out?

Edd was moping the blood away and muttering under his breath. Sansa knew how he worried over Jon. And she was well aware of his opinion of this entire journey. To Edd’s view, it had been cursed from the moment they set sail on a Friday with a corpse aboard. Sansa couldn’t say she felt much like arguing the point with him anymore considering all that had happened since they’d left England.

“Monsieur!” the surgeon barked. Robb jumped as the man gestured for something beside him. “Voilà!” With a look of triumph, Monsieur Thomas removed the probe and Sansa heard the metallic clank of metal falling into the basin Robb had passed him. “Madame,” he said next, rising to carry it to the dresser where Jon’s bloody shirt lay and gesturing for her to follow.

Sansa held the lantern as he peeled a scrap of fabric from the lead. With bloody fingers, he held up the shirt and placed the missing piece in the hole. Edd came up behind him and gave a satisfied huff.

“Well?” Robb asked from Jon’s side.

“It should patch up nicely, sir,” Edd answered with a sigh of relief. “Course…will I ever get all the blood out, who can say?”

“Merci, Monsieur. Merci,” Sansa said to Monsieur Thomas with a sigh of her own.

 

That night after everyone was gone and Sansa had assured her daughter that her papa was going to be fine but needed rest and she might see him in the morning, she laid down beside him on the freshly made bed.

His wound had been bound and, provided he did not succumb to fever, the surgeon said he should heal quick enough.

She brushed his loose curls back from his brow. He was drowsy from his dose and exhausted from the pain but he still reached for her. She snuggled up close and kissed his jaw, placing her hand over his heart.

“The baby.” His voice was slurred from the laudanum but she knew his worry.

“I am well.” She said a silent prayer that her instincts in this matter were correct. “Madame Bernard promises to have the accoucheur come and see me tomorrow.” She was a bit bruised and battered and sore from the fall but there had been no bleeding or cramping.

She leaned forward and kissed his lips. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For saving me of course.”

She shuddered to think that she might be in Baelish’s hands now if not for her husband’s impetuous decision to seek her out.

He grumbled an unintelligible response and was soon snoring.

But Sansa lay awake, pondering what Baelish had said to her in the hallway before he’d made his way out the door ahead of them. She would need to tell Jon tomorrow when he woke. She would need to tell Robb as well.

His presence in Paris was no mere coincidence, just as Jon had feared. The hunted had hoped to be the hunter tonight. He had almost succeeded.

She shivered at the memory of his minty breath and his face so close to her own as she was confined in the arms of his ruffians.

_“I hear you have a little girl. Sophia, yes? Is she as lovely as you, Sansa? You know, when I look at you…I can’t help but imagine what it would’ve been like if Cat could’ve been my wife. You might have been my daughter. Your daughter is here in Paris, no? I know she will miss her mama. I could arrange to have her brought to us. I would never harm your daughter. I’d treat her as my own.”_

She gazed at her husband and wished she could protect him just as he longed to protect her. But in this instance, it would do no good. Petry Baelish’s very existence was a threat to not only Jon and herself but their entire family.

And after tonight, Sansa wanted something she’d never imagined she would want. She wanted someone dead.

As if he’d read her mind, Jon mumbled in his sleep, “I will kill him.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do rather enjoy writing villains so I had fun giving a LF POV at the start :)
> 
> Look at that...it's only been a month and I actually updated this one. Woot woot. 
> 
> Seriously, I feel like I've found my flow again for this story as I've come to the acceptance that to be realistic (as fanfic goes) Jon and Sansa will have to be parted for a time in the upcoming chapters. The story will be more Jon-centric as the hunt for Baelish ensues. Apologies in advance for that as I know most of you are here for the Jonsa (me too!) but it simply wouldn't work for me otherwise.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay...finally an update *sighs* I'm sorry for the delay and I hope you enjoy it :)

 

_Petersfield, England_

 

Sansa watched her husband and daughter snoozing in the coach as they drew nearer to the estate. Jon was tired and sore from his wound and their journey but, like herself, had been immeasurably relieved all the same when they’d docked in Portsmouth yesterday evening. She suspected he might even have been tempted to kneel and kiss the ground but restrained himself.

_I certainly was._

She’d wanted to see Paris. Well, she’d seen it but, so long as Petyr Baelish drew breath, if she never saw it again, it would be too soon.

They’d spent the night in dockside lodgings, squeezed into a bed with Sophie between them. Once the sun was up though, they’d set off for home and now they were nearly there.

“Jon,” she said gently, nudging his knee.

His chin popped up from where it’d been resting on his chest and his dark brown eyes opened. “What watch is it?”

“Forenoon, Captain,” she laughed quietly.

“Ah, I see.”

Sophie murmured sleepily against his side and Jon began absently stroking her hair till she settled again before he turned to gaze out the window. Sansa wondered if he even saw the fields or pictured waves instead.

“How long can you stay, Jon?”

His eyes slowly drifted back to meet her own. “Not long.”

Sansa sighed and smoothed down her skirts in an attempt to soothe her worries and heartache. She knew the day of their extended separation was coming. But everything seemed to be hurtling towards them twice as quick now. She told herself she was prepared…until he spoke again.

“I intend to call on Admiral Mormont and the doctor tomorrow.”

“Call on them? At Whitehall, you mean? Tomorrow?!” Her voice had risen to a shriek by the last word and she bit her tongue as Sophie stirred. “We have not even set foot inside the house, Jon,” she whispered. “You’re still recovering. We’re…”

“I’ll spend the night here and catch the mail tomorrow for London. I may invite Gendry along. Perhaps it will stir Mormont to give him his step at last. After I speak with them, I need to go to Portsmouth. I told Gendry and Clegane we’d see to it everything is ship shape with _Jonquil_ before sailing on the 28th and I mean to adhere to that.”

She could not help but be forlorn and more than a little vexed but she knew outright opposition would not serve here. Her husband was quite stubborn at times. He was also very single-minded in his current purpose which she understood but she had imagined he would spend a few days at home first.

“Do you think Sir Jorah will make Gendry a lieutenant?” she asked instead of arguing.

“I think he will. I hope that will please him and Arya both.”

“They plan to marry now that Papa is here, you know.”

“Yes, that’s right. He had mentioned it before our departure.”

“Dany and Gabriel spoke of marrying as well.  They may even had decided upon a double ceremony.”

“That would simplify the matter for Parson Tyrell, I’m sure,” Jon said glibly.

“Of course, unlike Gabriel, Gendry will be sailing away with you on the 28th. It would be nice if he had more than one night with his bride.”

“We’ll be in and out of Portsmouth for some time while we’re working the crew up,” he said not quite meeting her eye. “Perhaps Arya might wish to come down to Portsmouth till…”

“Oh, yes. What a pleasant prospect for my sister. Nothing like sitting alone in a lodging house waiting for her new husband to possibly dart in for a night…or a few hours. But she’s to be a seaman’s wife. Arya will learn to live with it…as I have,” she murmured.

“Sansa…”

“I’m sure Father and Rickon will be glad to catch a glimpse of you before you go at least.”

“It’s not as though I wish to…”

“Two days with our family, Jon. Could you not give us two full days at home before you go? You told them we wouldn’t return till the 21st or thereabouts. It is only the 18th. I understand your reasons for wishing to get on with your mission and I support them but once you go, we both know very well that it may be some time before you can return. And Ser Jorah can make a decision regarding Gendry’s advancement without Gendry being present.”

He clasped her hand and nodded. “You’re right, Sansa. It can wait two days. And Arya may have Gendry to herself until I return from London. Two days…and three nights, Mrs. Snow.” He drew her hand up to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. “Two days but then, my darling girl, I’m afraid you’ll lose your husband to his natural element once more.”

 

* * *

 

 

The brides made a striking pair as they stood at the altar with their grooms flanking them whilst Parson Tyrell recited a psalm. Sophie stood behind them having fulfilled her duties as flower girl and was brimming with enthusiasm to make Fanny miserable when Robb and Talisa returned from France with her and learned of the wedding they had missed.

Considering the match she’d been facing when they’d met, Jon was pleased to see his aunt looking so happy as she held onto Gabriel’s arm. As for Arya and Gendry, while he’d been slower to recognize the attachment that had blossomed between them than his wife, he was no less happy.

He handed his own lovely bride a handkerchief as she wept a few tears of joy, fondly recalling the day she’d become his wife in Spain. Arya had been there then along with Sir Eddard and the boys. Bran was not present today as he was at sea with Benjen, perhaps on the far side of the world by now, but Rickon was here. The boy had grown taller than Jon in the many months since they’d last seen one another.

One of the older girls who attended Sansa’s school had returned early to help with preparations and she was currently giving Rickon a rather besotted smile. His brother-in-law’s eyes widened incredulously before he ducked his head and studied his boots.

_Well…he is only fifteen. I was rather terrified of young ladies at that age as well_.

When the ceremony was concluded, the well-wishers followed the happy couples to their borrowed carriages. Gabriel and Dany would be returning to Black Castle for the wedding breakfast before leaving to spend a couple of weeks alone at Winterfell. But, Gendry and Arya were foregoing the breakfast to travel directly to Portsmouth where they meant to spend their wedding night and a few days.

Jon and Gendry stood to one side as the two sisters hugged and whispered in one another’s ears. Despite their whispering, random words were heard here and there. Clearly, Arya had questions for her sister of an intimate nature. And Gendry, who Jon had never once seen heading towards a bawdy house when ashore, looked more like a frightened deer than the courageous young man who would storm an enemy’s deck or lead a cutting out expedition with never a tremble.

_I was nervous as well though. They’ll manage and I hope they’ll be as happy as we are._

“So, we’ll see each other soon enough. I hope you have a safe journey,” Jon said awkwardly. Arya could be rather blunt, he reflected as Gendry’s ears turned red and Jon adjusted his cravat.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Gendry, we’re not onboard ship. We’re brothers by marriage now. You can call me Jon.”

“That’s true, sir.”

“Stop calling me sir.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

At last, the ladies finished their discussion and Arya allowed her groom to help her into their carriage before she tossed her bouquet to the parcel of unmarried girls and women present. The girl who’d been staring at Rickon grabbed for it but instead it bounced off her hand and was caught by none other than Edd Tollett.

“Just what I needed,” he grumbled under his breath before handing the flowers to Sophie instead.

 

* * *

 

 

Sophie had gone to bed hours ago and Jon planned to leave at first light. He’d admitted he could not bear Sophie’s tears in the morning so he would leave before she woke.

“She’s almost five. I’ll miss her birthday,” he’d said sadly.

It would not be the first, nor she suspected, the last birthday he would miss. “She has me as well as her aunts and uncles and grandfather here to distract her. We’ll write to you often and you will when you can. We’ll read your letters over and over and I’ll speak of you every day.”

“She’ll forget me again.”

She’d sighed and rested her head on his shoulder. “Let’s hope you’re not gone so long as that.” Inwardly, she knew that depending on the length of his absence, the Captain might fade from Sophie’s memory. She hoped not though. “You’re going to London and will return here before going to Portsmouth. We will not call this good-bye just yet.”

Now, the hour grew late and Sansa frowned at her dish of tea as she listened to Jon and her father continuing their discussion.

“He lives just outside of Brest in Village des Eaux Grises,” her father said.

“Grey Water?”

“Yes.”

“And Monsieur Howland is someone I may…”

“I would trust Howland with my life, Jon. If you find yourself stranded ashore and in need, he is your man.”

“But he won’t know me.”

“He will. I’ve already written.”

“I only just told you my plans.”

“And I’ve known of your mission for some time now.”

Jon scowled and Sansa did as well. If her father, who was no longer actively involved in the army’s intelligence service, already knew of Jon’s mission which was supposedly the plan of naval intelligence, who else did? Petyr Baelish had almost seemed to be expecting them in Paris. Was her husband going to be walking straight into a trap?

“But Jon’s official mission is to gather intelligence regarding the semaphore stations along the coast. If that is all he accomplishes during the course of his cruise, he will have provided vital information to the navy in case the war resumes,” she told them both. _When the war resumes_. She’d prefer not to admit it but she knew that was the case.

Jon cast her a guilty look and her father said nothing. She may as well have saved her breath. Capturing Petyr Baelish, killing him, that was Jon’s personal mission. She hoped it would not blind him to the dangers involved.

She stood abruptly and set aside her untasted tea. “If you’ll both forgive me, I believe I will retire.” She gave them both a bright smile before sweeping from the room.

Her nose was twitching and tears began to sting her eyes as she reached the staircase. It was his last night at home but she would not burden him with her weeping. If her father had important, potentially life-saving council to give, she would not interrupt them. She only wished they could’ve held the conversation sooner.

“Sansa.”

She froze with her hand upon the balustrade. She heard the study door close behind him and the click of his boots across the polished floor. His hand lightly grasped her arm and turned her to face him.

“I can see myself up the stairs,” she said as steadily as she could manage to the floor.

“I know you can.”

“Papa may have more to say.”

“If he does, he can find a way to tell me of it before I sail. I’ve more important matters to see to tonight.”

“Such as?” Her eyes were still watery but a hint of a smile began to bloom. He said nothing but lifted her into his arms and carried her up the stairs, grinning at her surprised gasp. “Your wound, Jon,” she chided.

“Hang my wound. This is my last night at home with my wife.” Once they reached the solitude of their chambers, he kicked the door closed and laid her upon their bed. “Tonight, I wish to show my wife how well I love her and how very much I will miss. Will you permit that, Mrs. Snow?”

“Gladly,” she sighed opening her arms to him.

In the predawn light, she wrapped a robe around her waist which was beginning to swell slightly. She hurried down to the kitchens while he dressed to see to it that he had a hearty breakfast to see him off. Alone in the breakfast parlor, they sat amiably together as he sipped his coffee and ate with one hand. His other hand was busy holding hers. She smiled bravely for him though and kept their talk from turning too serious.

Their final kiss upon the front steps was the closest she came to breaking down. She clutched him to her fiercely for several seconds before releasing him, taking a step back as she smoothed down his uniform coat.

“I’ll see you when I return,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.

“When you return.”

He would return once more but they both knew it would be very brief. Her heart felt as though it were cracking when the coach rolled away but she would not waste her time staring at the horizon. She had responsibilities here. Their daughter, their family, the child coming, the estate and her school. She would have to endure without her husband for a time as she had before. She prayed it would not be too long before he returned.

 

* * *

 

 

_Late September 1802_

 

_The English Channel_

 

Captain Jon Snow paced the deck of his twenty-gun post ship _Jonquil_ as the sun began to set. They had sunk the land an hour ago and were making their way across to what would be their nominal station in the English Channel for the foreseeable future.

He could hear the men at their supper, a pleasant din, and Clegane was barking orders at his mate. He breathed deeply, relishing the tang of the salt air and the refreshing evening breeze as they made what he would guess was around ten knots.

“Mr. Thorne? Report, if you please,” he called to his first lieutenant who had the watch.

The older man gave him a baleful look before replying in the proper form. He was clearly still holding on to his resentment over their earlier disagreement.

_Well, he holds more than a few towards me._

It had not been much of a disagreement…at least, it shouldn’t have been.

Working up a crew was hard work even with experienced seamen when trying to get an assorted bunch of men to learn to work together. They’d been busy for the past three weeks drilling at the guns and sails. They were making considerable progress in settling down into a well-ordered ship. Overall, Jon would call the spirit aboard cheerful which was what all good captains wanted.

However, Thorne was far more apt to punish men for minor infractions than Jon. Just today, he’d put down two men for punishment for engaging in a bit of horseplay when they were supposed to be taking a reef. There was little room for such nonsense aboard and yet it did occur. The men were still human after all. Jon might’ve been willing to turn a blind eye in such an instance or perhaps cut their grog ration and call an end to it. But, Alliser had already stated on the quarterdeck within the hearing of some of the men and the other officers that the captain would certainly flog them both.

Ordinarily, a captain would back his lieutenant whenever possible. Thorne was second in command and, despite the unfortunate enmity that existed between the two of them, mutual support between the officers was vital to make a happy ship.

In this instance though, Jon felt it best to address this issue privately before his first lieutenant started making punishments a daily occurrence aboard _Jonquil_. He’d asked to speak to Mr. Thorne in his cabin. Their quarrel was extremely brief and might not even be considered a true quarrel. As soon as Jon reminded the lieutenant who was captain, that was the end of all discussion. Naval hierarchy didn’t allow for discussion once a captain had made his decision.

But, at six bells when the defaulters were called up and Jon had issued a minor punishment he felt more in keeping with the offense, he’d seen the wry looks some members of the crew aimed Mr. Thorne’s way. It was not an ideal way to start things off. The men could not think they could misbehave and run to their captain to protect them from a flogging. Meanwhile, Thorne had shot a rather nasty glance his way.

_Like a ship full of children_ , he lamented to himself as he continued his pacing of the quarterdeck and tried to ignore his lieutenant’s injured pride.

_You’ve more pressing matters to consider_ , he reminded himself.

His trip to Whitehall had yielded some interesting information. The Admiralty had discovered the suspected traitor in their midst thanks to Dr. Seaworth’s efforts. A dockyard official named Karstark had been stealing information and passing it over to Roose Bolton who in turn was sharing it with Petyr Baelish. Karstark had been hung just a few days ago and that source of intelligence for the enemy was no more. However, it appeared that before his execution, Karstark had told them Bolton had a son who had been the courier for all the information he had passed along.

Ramsay Bolton owned a rather impressive privateersman, a twenty-two gun ship named the _Dreadfort_. He had sailed under British colours during the war but it was widely believed he’d gone over to the enemy same as his father. Of course, with the Peace, his vessel was nominally a merchantman but could easily be a threat the instant war was declared once more. However, at present, Jon could not legally take her a prize.

“However, if you should encounter this Bolton…” Davos had said with a meaningful look as Admiral Mormont pretended to be busy with paperwork.

“Sink or destroy her,” Jon had finished. “Very well. Regardless, make no mistake, gentleman, I can no longer tolerate the threat Petyr Baelish poses to my family. Friend of his are my enemies. Whether by fair means or foul, I mean for the matter to be concluded before I return to Whitehall again.”

He looked over his shoulder where the coast of England had disappeared over an hour ago and said a prayer for his wife and daughter and their unborn child. He hoped to rejoin them before the war began again. Napoleon was busily building ships and drilling his army while Whitehall was putting up ships in ordinary and looking into dockyard corruption. He only hoped he could finish this mission and have a little time at home before duty called him back once more.

_And be there when our child born perhaps._

Gendry came on deck to relieve Thorne and Jon was glad of it. At least, their professional relationship was quite intact. It had only been strengthened through their new bond as brothers.

“Good evening, sir,” Gendry said amiably.

“Good evening, Lieutenant,” Jon said with a smile, quite pleased to see his protégé advance to his present rank at last.

The two men turned to look forward again towards where the coast of France lay some distance ahead still. _Where Petyr Baelish waits and a dangerous game of cat and mouse looms._

“So, now it begins.”

“No, Gendry…now it ends.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had Jojen Reed as a midshipman earlier in the series but decided to include 'Monsier Howland' here so we're going with them not being related ;)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's some naval discipline at the start of the chapter just so you know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this chapter is alright. I struggle so much with writer's block on this one. I'm guessing only 2-3 chapters total are left but will I ever finish them? Fingers crossed. 
> 
> There's no Sansa in this chapter or probably the next as I'll be focused on Jon's mission aboard and in France for a bit. But, I'll bring him back home before the end. Thanks so much to those of you who are reading this :)

 

_October 1802_

_Off the coast of Cherbourg_

 

He’d been so pleased when he’d come aboard. Months with not even so much as half-pay and no way to learn his profession ashore had made him quite desperate to find employment. He’d been delighted to sail with his old captain again.

_Wonder if he’s delighted now._

“Six!” Clegane bellowed as the cane swished through the still air of the cabin.

The boy’s face was streaked with tears. He was biting his lip to keep from crying out. But despite the smaller audience and the relative privacy of being turned over a gun in the captain’s quarters, everyone aboard ship would know that Mr. Midshipman Flowers was being punished for his earlier antics whether he cried out or not.

“Seven!”

Dizzying and mortifying memories of receiving similar punishments in Captain Mormont’s cabin as a Mid kept surfacing. And, as it so happened, the man standing next to him wearing a smugly satisfied look had usually been the reason for them back then.

Jon heard the cane swish through the air once more before he decided he’d had enough. As captain, he could end a punishment early if he chose. Thorne and his wounded pride could bugger off.

“Enough!” he barked before Clegane could draw his powerful arm back for the ninth stroke. “That’ll do, Mr. Clegane.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Clegane stuck his cane under his arm, no more affected by having his orders changed than he had been at administering them. He was not a cruel man per se. Just a bosun of long standing who’d done his duty far too many times to feel any particular concern over one sixteen-year-old who’d been fool enough to mock the First Lieutenant within his hearing.

Tollett helped Mr. Flowers to stand upright again as the boy hastily wiped away his tears. Thorne said not a word but Jon could practically hear his teeth grinding together in frustration.

“I trust you’ll remember to show your superiors the proper respect and obedience from now on, Mr. Flowers?” 

He tried not to sound too apologetic. The boy had done wrong and, if he meant to make a career in the Navy, he’d have to learn this lesson well.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. You’re dismissed to see the surgeon.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

The boy walked stiffly out the door, each step an agony Jon knew from bitter personal experience.

Alliser looked just a stiff as he made an abrupt salute and left afterwards.

“That didn’t please Old Pisser none,” Clegane snorted.

“Mr. Clegane, I believe I spied mold on the spare topgallants when I went ‘round the ship earlier. A shameful state of affairs, wouldn’t you say?” he asked sharply.

“Aye, sir,” the older man grumbled.

“Perhaps you could see that the matter is rectified at once?”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Clegane did not appreciate the rebuke but he had no leg to stand on there. The sail did indeed have mold on it. And, Jon could hardly commiserate with his bosun over his prickly Premier.

Edd gave Jon a wry look, his eyes twinkling with uncanny merriment when they were alone again.

“Not you too, Edd,” he warned. Of any man aboard other than Gendry, Jon might be tempted to open his mind to Edd upon occasion but not now.

“I didn’t say a word, did I, sir?” Edd squawked with an exaggerated look of misuse. Jon nodded and removed his coat. Edd fetched it from him to hang up, muttering about some people who threw good coats about as if they grew on trees. “I put some coffee up just ‘afore if you’d care for some, sir.”

For all his nagging ways, Jon wouldn’t trade Eddison Tollett for a dozen First Lieutenants. He always knew when Jon wanted coffee, no matter the time of day.

“Coffee would be most welcome. Thank you.”

“Which there’s still the mail to sort,” he added.

“Yes, there is,” Jon replied as a wide smile spread across his own currently dour face. “If he’s at leisure, ask Mr. Waters if he’d like to join me, please.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

Gendry arrived a few minutes later in his shirtsleeves. He’d been sleeping no doubt as he’d had the middle watch. “Edd says there’s mail,” he said with a gleam in his eyes.

“Aye. The mail ship arrived not an hour ago.”

“I thought I’d dreamed that.”

The two men hurriedly began sorting. There were letters for several of their shipmates and the officers which Jon would hand over to the purser to disperse soon enough. Duty required Jon to search for any official missives from the Admiralty first though. Love tempted him to search for letters from home instead.

Three fat letters addressed in Sansa’s delicate hand did he find which he gratefully tucked into his pocket and then handed over two from Arya to her husband. His hand stilled when he spied the Admiralty seal on the waxed sailcloth towards the bottom of the sack. Perhaps, Davos had come through at last.

“How did Mr. Flowers fare?”

“As well as could be expected.”

“I don’t recall him being punished aboard _Alayne_.”

“I stopped his grog once.” Gendry raised his eyebrows. “I know,” Jon sighed. “Thorne seems to invite trouble and an alarming amount of contempt aboard ship but that’s my cross to bear. Here, take your letters from your wife and read them at your leisure.”

“What does the Admiralty say?”

“I’ll tell you if I can _after_ I’ve read it.”

“Aye-aye, sir,” Gendry smirked.

“Gendry?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think I’m…never mind.”

It was hardly appropriate to ask a junior lieutenant for reassurance even if he happened to also be his brother-in-law.

Gendry rose to leave with his wife’s letter but turned back at the door. “You’re doing a fine job, Jon. The men go cheerily enough to their tasks with you in command.  Don’t let anyone make you feel otherwise.”

The door had already closed behind him when Jon replied, “Thank you.”

Jon sat down at his desk with the fresh, hot pot of coffee that Edd had brought. For a man who’d been so keen to get to his mission a month ago, he was terribly low at present. He missed his wife and daughter. He missed the different responsibilities of home when faced with the arduous and complex issues he faced aboard.

_“One foot in sea and one on shore…”_ he quoted to himself and sighed at his melancholy.

It was tempting to read Sansa’s letters from home first but he knew in the coming days, he would read them repeatedly until he knew them by rote. He would spend the hours in his cot composing replies to her in his mind, long after he’d put ink to paper.

Duty came first. He picked up the message from the Admiralty and cracked the seal.

 

* * *

 

 

The little harbor lights drew nearer as his gig pulled him towards shore. Jon glanced over his shoulder at _Jonquil_ where 125 men were currently under the command of Alliser Thorne until he returned. He wished it didn’t make him so uneasy.

He had on his boat cloak over a plain white shirt and dark blue breeches. He had on an old Monmouth cap against the biting night air, covering his ears. Though the two countries were ostensibly at peace with each other, he knew it would be best to blend in as much as possible.

_Until I open my mouth, that is._

Edd was at the tiller and Mr. Flowers sat across from him.

“How’s your French, Mr. Flowers?” he asked to boy to take his mind off the upcoming meeting and the brewing tension aboard.

“Fairly good, sir. I was born in Guernsey,” he answered with a touch of pride. However the pride disappeared the next moment when he added, “There was a…my mother was half-French.”

A ship is like a village except much more confined. No secrets remained secret for very long. Jon had heard the gossip concerning the boy’s mother and how she’d come to choose the rather unfortunate Christian name of Satin for her son. Jon did not find it affected his potential as a seamen in the slightest.

“Hmmm. I should have you go in my stead perhaps.” The boys eyes grew round and Jon chuckled quietly. “I’m being jocose, Mr. Flowers.”

His lips twisted into a smile as the boy struggled to make a reply. Perhaps midshipman didn’t imagine post-captains possessed any humor at all. He certainly wouldn’t have expected it of Mormont as a lad.

He returned his attention to the shore.

After Ned’s recommendation to seek assistance from Howland Reed if necessary, Jon had mentioned the man to Davos.

_“An excellent contact from everything I’ve heard. Quiet, professional and keeps a very low profile. With your struggles with the language, I’ll send you a useful field agent but it wouldn’t hurt to meet with Monsieur Reed in case of need.”_

However, he had an appointment on shore to meet with Monsieur Rugen tonight and hoped they’d be able to manage a conversation.

Edd kept her steady through the swell as the gig reached the dock. The rope was passed around the moorings and Jon was ashore in France for the second time in his life. The relish he’d felt two months ago after being rescued at sea was no longer with him.

“Two hours, Mr. Flowers. All hands to remain with the boat.”

“Aye-aye, sir.”

He’d chosen steady men and hoped the allurements of the town would not be too much temptation. And Mr. Flowers needed some experience being left alone and in charge if he ever hoped to be an officer.

He made his way towards the tavern with the directions Davos had sent, staying up late two nights ago to make sense of the coded message. He breathed a sigh of relief when he found it.

His man was waiting at a corner booth as expected.

Finely dressed and plump without a single hair on his head, the man stood as soon as Jon joined him.

“Monsieur Rugen?”

“Enfin!” the man said snappishly. “Tu m’as fait attendre!”

The words rattled around Jon’s brain for a moment as he deciphered their meaning, already taking Umbridge at the man’s tone. _I’ve kept him waiting?_ He glanced at his watch. He was within a minute of their agreed rendezvous time.

“Laisse nous partir! Je n’ai pas toute la nuit.” _(Let’s go. I don’t have all night.)_

What the devil was wrong with this man? He didn’t have all night? Why were they meeting in the first place if the man clearly did not wish to? Why had Davos arranged this meeting at all with an uncooperative agent?

Jon’s temper was building but he kept it in check enough to say with only the merest tremble, “Je ne suis pas votre servieture, monsieur.” _(I am not your servant.)_

“Tu ne le seras pas non plus si tu me parles comme ça imbécile !” Before Jon could translate that (and react), Monsieur Rugen drew nearer and whispered, “Davos said you’re a clever man, Captain Snow. There are many eyes here tonight.”

Jon’s mouth opened and closed stupidly only a time or two before understanding dawned. He nodded and bowed to Monsieur Rugen before following him out the door into the night.

 

* * *

 

 

Half an hour later, Jon was seated at a table in a private house with a glass of wine before him.

“I apologise for the display earlier, capitaine. I had thought our location would be suitable enough to meet but recognized a couple of rogues who have been in Baelish’s employ in the past. Your disguise as a manservant was well chosen.”

Jon looked down at his clothes.  He'd not been aiming for a servant.  He hated to think how Edd's pride would be wounded by Rugen's assessment of his attire. He didn’t know that he’d call it a disguise precisely either but he was not a fool.

“Did you expect me to appear ashore in full-dress uniform, Monsieur Rugen?”

“Varys.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“My name is Varys. I use the name Rugen in England but it is just a nom de guerre. Davos knows my true name though and now you do as well. And, I assure you, capitaine, I have been astounded by the depths of men’s stupidity in the past. You looked the part of a potential manservant but the moment you opened your mouth, I knew you’d never pass for a Frenchman.”

“I said no more than ‘Monsieur Rugen,’” Jon scoffed.

“That was more than enough,” Varys shrugged. He sat down at the table with Jon and took a sip of his wine. “So, now we set about ridding the world of Petyr Baelish, oui?”

“Oui, um…may I ask how you came to be connected with the matter?”

“I am a Frenchman but became an agent to British Intelligence because I see the danger Napoleon presents to my country. His visions of conquest will only lead our country to bleed more than it has already. I was a revolutionary in my younger days but…I do not believe Napoleon has the common man’s best interests at heart if he is determined to march them across Europe for more war."

"And you're acquainted with Baelish?"

"Unfortunately.  He is a traitor to England and would likely betray France as well if it meant his own skin. Such men are dangerous and best removed from the game.”

“I mean to capture him.”

“Davos said killed. He did not mention capture.”

Jon smiled then.  _At least we are of the same mind_.  “Killed then.” The man’s eyes sparked with triumph and Jon said, “Mr. Baelish's very existence is a threat to my family's safety.  I would see him dead along with his associates."

"Very well,” Varys said with a cold smile of his own. “You’re not the only man who has a personal interest in seeing him dead, Mr. Snow.”

 


End file.
